


Touch

by andIwillwrite500more (prototyping)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon Retelling, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Porn With Plot, Romance, Student My Unit | Byleth, awkward young adults, both pre- and post-timeskip, hey let’s uhhhhh talk about that prince/commoner power dynamic for like two seconds, really heavy foreshadowing, we’re gonna say sothis was off for the day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 82,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22567156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prototyping/pseuds/andIwillwrite500more
Summary: It’s easy to get lost in her. It’s easy toforgetsometimes, to disregard everything in his life that isn’ther, and that scares him. He doesn’t deserve her and he most certainly doesn’t deserve such a reprieve from reality, however fleeting it always is.(Or, a student!Byleth AU that started as a PWP but does have plot now.)((Now with beautiful fanart in chapter 10 ;-;And an audio scene in chapter 11! <3 ))
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 364
Kudos: 893





	1. Chapter 1

He watches her hand glide across the parchment, dragging her quill in short lines here and there, occasionally jotting down a short note, and every so often pausing to return to the inkwell. Her handwriting doesn’t look like it would come from her slender fingers. It’s thin, rough, the letters disconnected, but it’s legible, and Dimitri considers her work thoughtfully.

“So you would divide the army three ways,” he muses. “But why so few in the group advancing from the forest?”

“The enemy has a clear view of the area from their vantage point.” Byleth taps a nail against the semi-circle representing a hill. “Chances are good they would assume we split our forces evenly in hopes of swarming them from the forest, or that we even put most of our numbers there. Of course, this depends on the season and how dense the trees are, but ideally we could give the impression that our forces are almost a third more than what they are.”

She glances up at him, her expression patient, and after a moment Dimitri nods. “I see. And while they have the high ground, we have a better estimate of their numbers, so we shouldn’t have many surprises.”

“Exactly.” She leaves the makeshift map to dry and turns sideways in her chair. “We can draw up the final drafts tomorrow, if you’re free in the afternoon. Maybe in your handwriting would be better.”

His mouth twitches into a half-smile. “I don’t know about that. But yes, the afternoon is doable.”

Byleth reaches across her desk to pinch out the flame on the low-burning candle, throwing both their shadows onto her bedroom wall as the lantern near the door continues to glow. Dimitri steps aside to let her stand, where she stretches her arms over her head with a short groan. He glances away until she speaks again.

“Good. I’m planning on having lunch with my father tomorrow, but I’ll meet you after that.” She tosses him an expectant look and he nods again.

“Certainly. That’s fine by me.”

He always finds her to-the-point attitude refreshing. Most of the other students—and people in general—tend to default to Dimitri’s authority and input on even the smallest of matters. He understands their reverence, and doesn’t mind taking charge as needed, but skipping those unnecessary steps every once in a while is nice.

He’s guessed that it’s a natural result of her previous mercenary life. Her easy authority is just one of Captain Jeralt’s qualities that she seems to echo in her everyday mannerisms, to say nothing of those on the battlefield. Were Byleth not enrolled as a student, nor only a little older than he, Dimitri could easily picture her as a teacher. She practically is one already when it comes to giving her fellow students battle advice, anyway.

He’s still entertaining those thoughts when she leans up to touch a brief kiss to his mouth.

His startled expression makes her laugh as she pulls back. “You always look so surprised.”

“Ah—yes, well—” As sheepish as he feels, he’s glad to have put that look on her face. He smiles back. “You do manage to catch me off guard quite often.”

She places a small hand on his chest. Even through three layers of clothing, it’s noticeably warm. “You were staring at me today,” she remarks in a neutral tone.

She probably feels him tense beneath her touch. Dimitri flounders in silence for several long moments, unsure how to answer that. He _did_ catch his eyes lingering on her a few times, yes—mostly unintentionally, and he stopped as soon as he realized he was doing it—but when and how did she notice those split-second glances?

“I—” he manages finally. “I don’t deny it, but—I apologize. I didn’t mean anything by it. I admit it was—different, seeing you in a new uniform, but…”

Her head cocks slightly at the word _different,_ as though she knows it’s not the most truthful word he could have used, and he feels his face grow warm. It’s difficult _not_ to notice the way her white blouse and tan skirt hug her figure at every curve, or the length of her legs when they’re so unabashedly bare—

He forces those thoughts aside, just as he’s done all day. 

Byleth’s expression is difficult to read. As expressive as she’s become in many ways, she’s still perfectly capable of feigning apathy when she wants to—and Dimitri has recently discovered that “when she wants to” usually involves teasing him in some way.

Once again, she manages to catch him off guard—this time by guiding his hands to her waist as she takes a half-step even closer.

“You can do more than look,” she says evenly.

It isn’t their first kiss, not by far, but his heart hammers and his breath catches as though it is. They start slow and simple and chaste—almost cautious on his end, which is habit, as though he’s wary of ruining this thing he most certainly doesn’t deserve. Before long he’s comfortable with something a little deeper, rougher, and soon their low gasps for breath are the only sound in the room’s silence.

He pulls Byleth against him in as gentle an embrace as he can manage, exhaling hard as he’s reminded of how wonderful she feels. His hands run over her back, wistful but modest, until she breaks away just long enough to mutter “Take them off” before crushing her mouth to his again with new fervor.

He obeys and tugs his gloves free, and then resumes his touches—and he finds that her blouse is much thinner than the jacket of her usual uniform. She hums against his lips as his fingers trace her spine, and then again, louder, when he rubs her shoulders, his bare skin appreciating her warmth and craving more of it, only just out of reach. In response she runs her palms along his chest, and then links her fingers behind his neck to pull him down closer.

It’s easy to get lost in her. It’s easy to _forget_ sometimes, to disregard everything in his life that isn’t _her_ , and that scares him. He doesn’t deserve her and he most certainly doesn’t deserve such a reprieve from reality, however fleeting it always is.

But she does. She deserves everything he can give her and more and he’ll gladly hate himself a little for it—it’s nothing new—if it means bringing that smile to her face and letting her know that her affection isn’t wasted, even if it could be put to better use loving someone else.

Byleth steps back, pulling him with her, and he follows. Her dresser rattles as she leans into it, secured there by his weight, and she catches him by the hips when he starts to retreat uncertainly. The look in her eyes reiterates the message— _Stay_ —and he does so.

His hands move to her sides instead, touching and stroking. There’s a persistent part of his imagination that wonders how it would feel to untuck her blouse and give his hands free reign to wander her bare skin underneath, following the curve of her back and the dip of her waist, higher to her generous chest—

Dimitri breaks from their kiss with an exhale and a frown.

“Hm?” Byleth prompts curiously, nuzzling his jawline.

His blood is buzzing and he feels almost feverish. It’s difficult for him to focus on words, especially with her fingers massaging his shoulders. “It—It’s nothing. I just… I don’t want to—”

His words catch in his throat. The buzzing has subsided enough for his sense of awareness to extend beyond his mouth and hands—most notably, to the heat churning in his abdomen and the sudden, solid presence between his legs that’s pressing against her stomach.

He jerks backwards, dragging her with him a step. “I’m—! My apologies, I—! I forgot myself—” He catches her waist to steady her but can’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He’s managed to control his thoughts all day, but _now_ , at the _worst_ possible time, he let them slip to the point of _this_ —

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. His face and neck are burning with shame. “I didn’t mean to—think of you in such a way. I’m…” In the corner of his eye Byleth retreats slightly, and he thinks—almost hopes—that he might just die of humiliation when she looks down.

Slowly, she drops a hand down between them, and pauses just short of his very obvious erection. She looks up at him. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Dimitri’s mind goes blank. The question is asked so casually, hardly different from the same easy tone she used when discussing their assignment. Stunned, he can only manage a stiff nod after a few thundering heartbeats.

Her gaze drops again, and the light brush of her fingertips against him, even through the cloth, is enough sensation to knock the air out of his lungs. His shoulders are so tense they hurt.

After a couple such fleeting touches, she suddenly—gently—palms him, and he only just stops his fingers from digging into her sides. He hunches over involuntarily, far enough that his bangs brush her cheek.

“Byleth,” he hisses, but even now he frowns, ashamed of the desire flaring up inside him. She watches his face coolly.

This is less Byleth, his good friend and lover, and more Byleth, the person who seems strangely disconnected with certain everyday things. There’s nothing embarrassed or appalled or even uneasy in her face as her fingers carefully shift their grip on him—and that casual calm, that easy control, is almost as arousing to him as her touch.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” she murmurs. She steps forward so that their bodies are once again flush—and his erection presses against the front of her skirt. “I feel the same way,” she breathes heavily, as fresh color rises quickly to her face.

Despite his doubts, Dimitri can’t resist leaning into her in response, and they both gasp at the added friction. His hips give a weak thrust of their own accord, eager for more force, but Byleth suddenly releases him. Before he can feel disgusted with himself or guilty or even disappointed, she reaches down and tugs her tight skirt up on her thighs. Again he can only stare, this time as she reaches around to the back of his thigh and tugs it forward, up and between both of hers so that she’s straddling his leg.

Something like a wince flickers over her face. Biting her lip, she drags herself against him lightly, slowly, and the way her breath stutters makes him ache even more. Regardless, Dimitri remains absolutely still, enthralled by her reactions and reluctant to interrupt.

When her eyes flutter open again, he catches the glint of intention in them right before she presses her own thigh firmly up against his groin.

He bites the inside of his cheek—but when her hand returns to his cock and gives a slow stroke, catching it between her palm and her leg, heat blazes through his veins like fire. A moan finally makes it out of him, low and guttural.

Byleth pauses, her warm face and arched eyebrows questioning. Waiting. With clumsy hands Dimitri answers, tilting her chin up and kissing her as he likewise rubs his thigh between hers—and then their kisses are messy, starving, distracted as they prompt more sounds of pleasure out of one another with the grinding of their hips.

He doesn’t feel her unlatch his belt. Without warning her warm hand is around him, touching him skin-to-skin, and his groan is the loudest yet as she carefully eases his waistband down, just enough to free him from his pants. She starts pumping him slowly, curiously—and again his body moves on reflex. He thrusts into her hand, forcefully enough to shove her back against the dresser again. Byleth grunts, but bites his lip and swallows his apology before it can rise, her hand moving faster.

He pulls from her mouth a moment later, needing all of his focus to keep still. He reaches around her to lock his hands on the edges of the dresser, where they’re at the least risk of breaking anything important, and bumps uncoordinated kisses against the side of her neck.

When her touch goes still without warning, his body twitches in protest, but Dimitri holds back. He waits, but she doesn’t resume, and he withdraws to meet her eyes curiously.

“I want to feel you,” she whispers. Her free hand pushes down on his thigh, easing it away from her, and then reaches up her skirt to quickly work her underwear down her legs.

Dimitri starts. “Byleth—” His voice is almost unfamiliar in his ears, thin and ragged. “We shouldn’t—I don’t think we’re prepared to—”

She silences him with a finger against his lips. “Just touch,” she breathes. When he doesn’t object again, she guides his still very-solid erection up between her legs to press the length of it against her, straddling it rather than taking him in.

The warmth that envelopes him nearly makes his knees buckle. His grip on the dresser tightens and he grinds his heels into the floor to keep from slamming his hips against her. Her hand felt lovely, but this is something else entirely—something more intimate, more unknown, tinged with just enough shame and uncertainty to make the concept that much more appealing to the lust simmering hot in his gut.

Byleth’s breaths are quick and short, matching the small strokes of her thumbs along the base of him. Her eyes are on his face but her attention isn’t: she slides herself ever so slightly along his length, her hot center and thighs dragging against him on all sides, and her moan is nearly lost beneath the sound of wood splintering beneath his grip.

“Byleth—” he manages through clenched teeth, “this is—”

 _—wonderful_ , much more than he ever would have guessed.

 _—wrong_ , a small—and shrinking—part of him wants to think. But if they both want it—and they do—and if it’s _just_ this, just touch, with no risks…

How wrong can it be?

Perhaps because of his remark, Byleth backs away a little. The pressure—that amazing, maddening pressure—lets up as she looks at him.

“Do you want to stop?” The question is quiet and breathless, but the neutrality in it is earnest. If she’s disappointed by the prospect, she isn’t letting it show.

“N-No,” he replies instantly. “If… you’re certain as well, then… don’t stop.” He brushes his nose clumsily across her hairline, his lips against her temple. “Please,” he says softly, “don’t stop.”

Byleth tilts her head back, finding his mouth as her fingers tighten, and his sharp groan passes from his lips to hers. He feels her smile.

“Don’t stop… doing what? Give me the order,” she whispers. Her grip slackens. He barely withholds a frustrated noise. “Your Highness.”

That makes him pause. Normally, he would never entertain the thought of _ordering_ her to do anything, least of all something so… something like this.

But her heavy-lidded gaze is as playful as it is intense. She wants this—from him—and the thought sends raw desire coursing through him so quickly he almost feels dizzy.

Dimitri forces his hands to relax just enough to pry them from the warped, cracked wood. He grazes his palm across her back, longing to touch her but not totally trusting his body in his current state of mind.

He holds her gaze evenly as he commands, so low it’s almost a growl, “Touch me, Byleth. Now.”

She breathes in sharply. She relinquishes one hand to reach up and catch the back of his neck, pulling him into a hard kiss as she presses herself down firmly against his shaft.

His mindless reflex wins out again and he thrusts against her, pushing her into the dresser and making her grunt. In answer she rocks against him, her hand working rapidly to pump what the junction of her thighs can’t cover. He leans into her, already addicted to this new touch, and grunts sharply to let her know it.

He pulls his hips away slowly, reluctantly, and then pushes forward again, mindful and cautious this time. The friction of her soft skin is indescribable. She’s _so_ warm, so wet, and the grip of her thighs around him is tight enough that he can pretend he’s sinking into her when he thrusts again. The thought makes his spine tingle and the muscles between his hips clench harder. 

His voice is a full growl this time.

“Tighter.”

Her fingers squeeze and her legs clamp together and Dimitri sees stars at the sensation. He thrusts again. Their pleased sounds interweave with their tongues as their kiss deepens, hungry and aggressive on both sides.

They fall into a trembling, uneven rhythm, grinding and pushing against each other with increasing passion. If Dimitri cared to consider it, he would guess they look more like animals in heat than two lovers sharing in this level of intimacy for the first time.

He finally allows his hands to be bolder, minding his strength with as much attention as he’s able as he gracelessly rubs at her sides, her hips. His scarred palms find the smooth, tender flesh of her thighs and he grasps a little harder than he means to, but Byleth only hums.

It’s so much sensation, more than he can describe, but everything in him burns for _more_ , more of her touch and her mouth and everything she’s giving him. In a moment of boldness that surprises even himself, he cups her backside in his hands and picks her up, pinning her against the dresser and increasing his pace. At first he thinks her throaty gasp is one of surprise, but the twitch that shoots through her at the start of each thrust is emphasized by the hard buck of her hips.

“T-Tilt me down—forward—just a little,” she stammers. Her grip shifts to his sleeves to help him and he can feel the tremble in her arms. When she suddenly throws her head back, shoving her hand into her mouth to stifle a cry, he nearly drops her.

“Byleth?”

“Likethat,” she slurs around her knuckles. “Justlikethat—move—”

Dimitri obeys, fascinated and aroused by the way her entire body seems to lock up when he touches her just so in just the right place, the way she bites down on her lips to muffle a whine. He shifts her to one hand and uses the other to cradle her head, leaning it back so he can press brief, hurried kisses to the tight seam of her mouth. Once he thinks he’s narrowed down the sensitive place between her legs, he rubs hard against that spot, and _only_ that spot, and shoves his tongue between her lips to drink in her shout.

Her long legs lock around his waist and her hands drag against his chest, scratch his scalp, pull his hair. He catches his name amid her gasps and moans and words of praise. He’s the hottest he’s ever been, his uniform clinging to his skin and his hair plastered to his neck, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pumping through him and gathering in a tight ball just beneath his stomach, rising like a flare and coiling like a snake at every sound and movement Byleth makes.

If it all feels so overwhelming like _this_ , fully clothed and not even taking her properly, he can’t imagine how much better it would be to feel the touch of her bare body against his own, to take his mouth and his hands to every part of her that he can reach, to plunge _into_ her with every thrust and stake his claim to what no other man will _ever_ have because this moment belongs to them alone as surely as they belong to one another and no one else—

The tension in Dimitri’s body releases like the crack of a whip, sudden and forceful and leaving a loud ringing in his ears. He falls still as fresh heat splatters across Byleth’s thighs, down the front of his pants, probably onto the dresser, too. He buries his face in her hair as he pants, murmuring words in his daze that he won’t remember later and shaking with exhaustion and release.

After a long moment, she squirms a little in his arms. He pulls back to see her reach down between them, and the sight of her slender fingers caressing herself is nearly enough to make him hard again despite his fatigue.

The frown on her face looks pained. “Almost,” she hisses. Her shoulders twitch as her two fingers work faster, kneading and rolling her wet skin with desperate motions. “I’m so close, Dimitri—”

Even if his mouth wasn’t too dry to speak, he wouldn’t know how to ask what he’s thinking—so without a word he brushes her hand aside to do it for her, mimicking his stroking motions of before with his palm. Byleth bites her bottom lip, swollen and red from their harsh kisses, and arches backwards with a moan of appreciation. His eyes fall to where her shirt is stretched tight across her breasts, her hard nipples noticeable, and for a moment he loses concentration, all but forgetting his previous method of pleasing her.

With a small pout that sends a shiver through him, Byleth takes his hand and positions his thumb in a specific place against her hot, wet skin. “Here,” she says shakily. “Touch here.”

He does so, pressing and stroking with care. Byleth practically writhes, high-pitched noises catching in her throat and hissing through her teeth. She’s beautiful, breathtaking, and Dimitri finds it a struggle not to impose on her moment by kissing or rutting against her again. He forces himself to focus on her reactions in time with the motions of his hand, gauging which movements earn the better responses.

While his thumb continues to treat her weak spot, two fingers explore further back. They’re so slick with her heat and slide so effortlessly over her sensitive skin that he worries about penetrating her on accident, especially when she starts grinding more firmly against his hand.

Byleth leans back against the dresser on her elbows, chest heaving as she moans for him to keep going, yes, _just like that, you feel so good_ —

He locks his mouth against the side of her neck, sucking hard, and Byleth’s only warning is a croaked _Oh_ before her body goes rigid. Her fingers bite into his biceps as she arches back even further. He pulls back to see an entirely new look on her face, some frantic blend of relief and concentration as her glazed eyes meet his. Her smile may be mesmerizing, but this is _stunning_.

She goes slack moments later, her short sigh both exhausted and satisfied. Her hands tremble as they cup his face, inviting him down to her, and Dimitri meets her with a soft kiss that feels all the more chaste after all that’s transpired.

“Are you alright?”

“Mm.” She kisses his upper lip, his lower, his chin, and then pulls back with a lazy smile. “A little spent, but… it was worth it.” Her legs loosen their grip around him and he takes that as indication to set her down. He does so carefully, catching her hands when she wobbles. “You’re a mess,” she observes calmly.

He glances down—at his stained pants, at where he’s still very exposed—and clears his throat awkwardly. It seems ridiculous to be embarrassed at this point, and yet he can’t help wanting to shrink away from her gaze now that the heat of the moment has cooled.

“I am,” he agrees lamely. It suddenly hits him how incoherent and almost _shy_ he’s been for most of this, constantly stammering and at a loss for words. The only time he was really sure of himself was when she told him to be. It’s certainly not how he would have pictured himself in such a situation prior.

As he watches Byleth reach into the top drawer of the dresser, pull out one of her training shirts, and offer it to him, Dimitri realizes he’s alright with that.

He takes it with a humble bob of his head. “Thank you.”

He wipes down as well as he’s able and tucks himself back into his pants. After a brief, considerate pause, he figures it’s only right to do the same for her—so he slips a hand behind her knee to lift her leg, but she gasps quietly when he touches the inside of her thigh. He goes still.

“N-No—” Her eyes are wide when he looks up at her. “It’s alright,” she murmurs. “Keep going.”

As gently as possible, he cleans away the mess between her legs with careful strokes and pats as he does his best to ignore her small shivers. When he notices the red stripes on her thighs, which look even brighter than the harsh love mark he left on her neck, he hesitates.

“Byleth… If I was—too rough, or there was anything that… If there was something you didn’t like, please, be honest with me.”

“I will.” Her simple answer prompts him to glance at her, but her expression is likewise open and earnest. Dimitri doesn’t have to think too hard to read into that short response: it implies that they’ll be intimate again, and that she has no concerns about it. “You do the same,” she adds with a pointed tilt of her head, and Dimitri can’t help an awkward smile before looking away again.

“Of course.” He’s quite certain he could never dislike anything she does to him.

Once he’s done, he reaches down to the underwear hanging around her ankle and helps her slip them back on. He draws them slowly up over her knees, her thighs, and finally secures them back on her hips, lastly pulling her wrinkled skirt back into place. They’re both due for a washing after all that, but for now they’re mostly presentable—enough for him to hurry back to his quarters and change before going to the bathhouse. Considering the hour, he shouldn’t have to worry too much about being seen.

His hands linger at her sides, his eyes on hers, but neither of them says anything for a long moment. On Dimitri’s end, it isn’t an awkward silence as much as a thoughtful one. He isn’t sure what he did right in his life to earn Byleth’s trust and friendship, let alone her affection. When they first met, he wouldn’t have even thought her capable of it.

He _does_ know that it’s entirely mutual, and that he would do anything for her in a heartbeat.

With a warm smile he places his palm against her cheek, consciously and carefully gentle. Her smooth, pristine skin contrasted against the ugly scars and burns on his hand probably serves as a metaphor of some kind. She’s never recoiled, never so much as batted an eye at that part of him.

But that’s not the part he’s worried about.

“We both know I’m no good with words when it comes to… explaining how I feel,” he says slowly, resisting the urge to drop his gaze. “As hopeless as I can be in that regard, I hope you know that you mean the world to me, Byleth.” His smile fades in favor of a serious, honest look. “I mean that.”

She shakes her head, light enough that she doesn’t knock his hand away. “I’m the same way. I know what I want, but I can’t always put it into words. I don’t always understand what I’m feeling, either.” Her hand comes up to cover his, pressing it into her cheek. “Except when it comes to you. I know what that is.”

His heart skips a beat. It must show on his face, since she laughs. “Always so surprised.”

Dimitri raises her hand to kiss the back of it, chuckling just the same. “Indeed. Perhaps one of these days I’ll manage to surprise you in turn.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Something other than a one-shot from me??
> 
> The initial fic was meant to be a standalone story, but some of y’all’s nice comments got me thinking on this AU a bit more and long story short, I also want to delve into this possibility some more now. C: Proper plot will start with the next chapter, including an eventual explanation of when they met, why Byleth already has emotions this early in the story, and all the complications that come with it, but for now uhhhh another chapter of shameless smut ayyy.

“What do you say? Care to make a wish?”

Byleth tilts her head back to glance at him. The motion is more telling than her expression, and Dimitri can’t help a soft laugh at the puzzled gesture. He doesn’t blame her, considering his lukewarm comments about the Goddess just now.

“We _are_ here on the night of the ball,” he reasons. “Why don’t you try wishing for something?”

She looks forward again, but leans her head back against his chest with a thoughtful hum. “After you,” she proposes, a smile in her voice.

He didn’t expect the turnaround, so he takes a moment to consider. “A wish of my own…” Truthfully, he’s never given it much thought. As he told her, he regards such things as silly whims of the imagination, but he can’t remember indulging in the thought as a child, even. If he did, those memories are just more of those that have faded into the darkness over the years.

Dimitri stares out of the glassless window of the Goddess Tower as he thinks. The night’s a lovely one, and while they can’t see much of the hall where the ball is being held from here, the warm night still hums with the distant echoes of instruments and voices. Byleth also looks out over the view from her place in his arms, her own stretched across the windowsill. It all gives him a true, rare feeling of real peace.

“I suppose my wish…” he says slowly, “is for a world in which no one would ever be unjustly taken from us. Or… something along those lines,” he adds, a self-conscious smile playing at his mouth. Such an unrealistic desire does sound silly indeed, if not downright foolish, and yet he doesn’t regret saying it. He’s more comfortable baring his idealistic side to her than to anyone else.

Straightening up a bit, Byleth slips her arms down to settle them atop his. She gives him more of her weight, which he barely notices, and her fingertips press into the backs of his hands—bare, again, for her sake. Despite the scars that mar them all over, she always touches and treats them so easily and fondly.

“I’ll wish for the same.”

Her words are as warm as her touch. Dimitri presses another light kiss to her hair and lingers there, letting his eyes fall closed as he breathes her in. Her touch and her scent are proof that she’s here and solid and real, and yet at times some part of him fears she might slip out of his grasp for good, that this part of his life could simply disappear, if he so much as looks away.

He wonders if this is what good dreams are like.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Although, at a time like this…” He traces her hip through the heavy skirt of her evening wear attire, the motion nervous despite how casually his words come out. “Perhaps it would make more sense for me to wish that we’ll be together forever. What do you think?”

Her slow strokes along his knuckles pause, and for a long moment Byleth doesn’t speak or even move. Dimitri feels his confidence plummet.

He’s not sure if she’s surprised or just opposed to the thought of such commitment or what, but he isn’t about to make her explain herself. He scrambles for a save and quickly settles on one, thoughtless though it will likely sound—but even as he starts to fake a laugh, Byleth suddenly turns in place and looks up at him, her bright eyes unusually wide.

“Do you mean that?”

For a few seconds he can only stare at her, mouth hanging open like a dolt as his saving lie wavers on the back of his tongue. There’s nothing embarrassed or nervous in Byleth’s face—she holds his gaze unabashedly, searchingly, and Dimitri already knows he can’t take those words back. Not with her looking at him like that.

Even so, he can’t tell if her reaction is a good or bad one. He glances aside with an awkward chuckle. “Did I manage to surprise you, after all?”

She lets an amused breath out through her nose. “You did.” Her hands rest on his chest. “But you just said you don’t believe in wishes.”

Dimitri looks at her to find her head tilted and expression curious. “I don’t,” he says slowly, more seriously. “But I believe in desires. And in working to achieve them.”

“Hmm.” Her touch moves up to his shoulders, and then her arms are around his neck. “And… what if you already have what you desire?”

His hold on her tightens, just slightly. “Then… I would fight to keep it. No matter the cost.”

Byleth pulls him down until their foreheads touch. “Forever’s a long time,” she comments, her words humming against his lips.

He smiles softly, sadly. “Anything less wouldn’t be enough.”

He meets her kiss with one just like it, eager but gentle, as slow as though they really do have forever.

This is the only time Dimitri can remember looking to the future for something _he_ wants—not someone else’s wish, not something he owes, and not just duty or responsibility. This is something he’s chosen for himself—and as long as Byleth wills it, he won’t ever let go.

The thought makes him hold her closer.

It isn’t long before their passion craves more than this. Their kiss deepens as their breaths quicken, gasping for air but refusing to part. Byleth presses herself against him as if to melt into him and Dimitri runs a hand down her spine to the small of her back, just as he did when they danced not even an hour ago. She doesn’t conceal her shiver this time, but trembles eagerly in his arms and bites his lip when his palms caress her thighs.

He pulls his tongue back into his own mouth, giving her room to speak—to object—as he starts gathering her long skirt between his fingers, winding it up like a scroll and dragging it up over her legs. Byleth groans, but only urges him to go faster, and then gasps softly when he hitches it up around her waist. His fingers trace back around her thigh to the front of her body, tracing a line up the inside of her leg—

Without warning Byleth pulls away—forcefully enough to break out of his hold and backing into the wall behind her, a grunt followed by a hissed _“Sothis—”_

Dimitri can only stare as she seems to glare at the adjacent wall, her face agitated but her eyes distant. Forgetting his manners for once, he blurts, “What?”

She looks at him as suddenly and studiously as though she forgot he was there. “I… um…” She glances at the wall again, more furtively than before. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “It’s—it wasn’t you—I just…”

She frowns at the floor. Her hands smooth her skirt back down into place. “I don’t think we should… do anything… _here._ ”

Dimitri stares a moment more. Then realization hits him like a slap to the face.

“Oh—!” A different kind of flush floods his face—one of shame and guilt. “Byleth, I—I’m terribly sorry, I had no idea— I swear to you, if I’d known you held the Goddess in such esteem, I would never have attempted to— _here_ , of all places—”

Oh, this is humiliating. Here he was, having worked up the confidence and the courage to offer her something scandalously intimate of his own accord this time—and he didn’t even stop to consider that doing so in a respected place like this would surely be blasphemous.

To learn that Byleth would care about such a thing is as surprising as it is mortifying, but that’s no excuse. Dimitri covers his mouth as he looks away and feels his cheeks burning.

“Please, forgive me— It was absolutely thoughtless of me—”

“No, it’s—” She catches his arm in gentle fingers and it’s enough to make him go still. “It’s fine, Dimitri, I… It wasn’t your fault. I wasn’t really thinking.”

“Even so, I…”

She shakes her head with a smile. “I mean it. I’m not mad, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Her expression certainly seems sincere, but the regret and self-deprecation churning in his chest make him doubt it. “Would you like to go somewhere else?” she asks.

Dimitri manages to meet her eyes, surprised as well as sheepish. “I…”

“The dormitories should be pretty empty right now.” Her touch slides down his sleeve to his hand, taking hold as she tilts her head curiously. Just that small, playful motion makes his heart race again. “If you want to continue,” she adds, and somehow manages to sound both indifferent and disappointed at the same time.

“Of course—” He shuts his mouth with an audible snap, a second too late to prevent that hasty reply, but Byleth chuckles.

“I’ll meet you over there, then. I just need a few minutes.”

* * *

He doesn’t know where she goes after they leave the tower, but Byleth doesn’t keep him waiting long. She joins him near the dining hall and together they make for the dormitories, as casual as can be to anyone who might happen to spot them, but from the looks of it almost everyone is still at the party.

“I want to apologize again,” Dimitri insists with a guilty frown. “I feel foolish for not realizing that you—”

She loops her arm through his. “It’s fine, Dimitri, really. It’s not something she would go out of her way to watch, but… just in case, you know?”

He shoots her a glance and a puzzled laugh. “You speak as though you know the Goddess personally.”

Byleth doesn’t look at him. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. It’s not as though I’ve ever talked about… my beliefs before.”

True as that may be, Dimitri regrets his careless comments about the Goddess’ distance before. Byleth didn’t seem bothered at the time, but that isn’t saying much. She’s come a long way in expressing herself since their first meeting just a handful of years ago, that much is certain, but he’s found that her expression can be slow to match her tone or actions.

As they climb to the second floor of the dormitories, his nerves have started to fray again. It looks as though they’re alone, or close enough to it, and they make it to his quarters without incident, where Byleth breaks away from him as he closes the door behind them.

“I’m sorry for the clutter,” he says as he turns back to her. “I wasn’t—”

The rest of his words are muffled by her mouth against his. It’s as if they were never interrupted at the Tower: her kiss is already deep and searching, her body pressed hard enough against him to pin his back against the door. His hands find her eagerly and he needs no convincing to match her fervor.

Suddenly Byleth pulls back to look at him, her smile making his heart skip several beats. He hears the bolt click into place behind him.

“No interruptions this time,” she assures him, which seems like an odd thing to say when she was the one to stop him before.

Dimitri doesn’t linger on it.

He draws himself up to his full height, arching her body against his as he kisses her neck and strokes her shoulders, her back, _lower_. She shivers again at his boldness and he wraps his hands around the back of her thighs, squeezing just slightly, which is more than enough to send another wonderful tremor through her.

He decides to take a more direct approach this time: he tugs the waistband of her skirt down over her hips. He’s rewarded with a small gasp and her fingers digging into his back.

He’s already hard but his movements are patient, particularly when he sets his hands on her exposed waist. It’s so easy to forget his strength when he’s around her, especially like this, and he has to collect his thoughts as he checks, “Byleth?”

Her hands fist in his jacket. “You don’t have to ask,” she whispers. That concept of power goes straight to his head and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his focus.

“You don’t know what I was going to propose,” he points out, but she only presses her hips against his impatiently.

“Touch me,” she groans. “I trust you.”

That hits him even harder than the power trip. He returns the favor and presses his palm between her legs, cradling her soft, warm center, and she practically sinks into his hand with a moan. She rocks against him and he matches her pace, kissing her parted lips as her breath quickens. In no time at all, the thin layer of her underwear is damp against his skin. It’s fiercely satisfying.

“Dimitri…” Her hips move faster as she buries her face in his shoulder. He lets her grind against him, lets her impatience build a little longer—and when she draws a shaky breath, he strokes a thumb down the front of her, concentrating on that sensitive spot in particular.

Her muffled, keening cry is lovely, so much more arousing than his memory was able to preserve since the last time they touched like this.

He pleases her a little longer, and then with one last, lingering swirl of his finger that makes her buck hard against his hand, he withdraws his touch. She lifts her head with a disappointed whine, but he kisses her forehead as he works her skirt the rest of the way down. It drops to the floor and she promptly kicks it away, not once looking away from his face.

Despite her generous permission and the growing heat in his skin, Dimitri only threads their fingers as he glances around the simple room. “Would you… prefer to make yourself comfortable first?” He can’t quite give voice to the thought, but he doesn’t need to: there isn’t a trace of uncertainty in Byleth’s face as she reads his mind and abruptly tugs him toward the bed.

She lies back into his pillow and doesn’t ease up on grasping his jacket until he’s leaning over her. She’s putting herself in his hands, quite literally, without question—and he’s more than happy to reward that trust.

He kisses her, deep and long but carefully gentle. She hugs his waist and pulls him down and he complies, giving her just enough of his weight to feel her exhale sharply, and lingers there for a long moment as he adjusts to the nearly mind-numbing sensation of the full length of her body against his.

“You’re wearing too much,” she mutters in his ear. He withdraws to look at her but her fingers are already working to unbutton his jacket, her mouth pressed in a concentrated frown that he finds incredibly endearing.

He helps her work it off his shoulders and now it’s just his thin black undershirt between him and her hands, and nothing at all between her touch and his arms. Byleth caresses circles and strokes into his biceps, his forearms, saying nothing of the scars there. Her eyes and her hands roam curiously, appreciatively, as far down as his wrists before returning up, all the way up to his face to pull him to her again in another kiss.

When Dimitri lifts himself up again, it’s to slip his hand down the front of her underwear without preamble, skin against skin. The sound she makes is both relieved and frustrated—loving the contact but craving more. He obliges, of course, and finds a pattern of careful strokes and pushes that makes her shudder and moan the hardest.

He shifts his weight to let his free hand travel down one leg, caressing skin and stopping just above her black knee-high socks, which are much more appealing on her than they have any right to be. He cups the back of her knee and massages with the same easy care that his other hand continues to both pleasure and torment her with, refusing to betray how painfully tight his pants feel or how violently he aches to be between her legs.

It’s all about _her_ right now, and he’ll do nothing more until she asks for it.

He’s so concentrated on reigning in his desires that he doesn’t immediately notice Byleth’s hand on his or that the sounds coming out of her mouth are now words.

“Pardon?”

His response makes her smile in amusement, for some reason, but she only guides his hand further down, until his knuckles rest on the bed and his fingertips are nearly beneath her. Her fingers fumble with his, until finally she grumbles and grabs at her underwear to start working them off completely.

He moves to help her—only to rip them off with a loud _snap_. Dimitri winces as Byleth stares at him, but his apology is cut off when she jerks him down by his collar and leans up to meet him halfway in a hard kiss that makes his lips sting. She pulls him with her as she lies back again, her legs curving around his.

“Here,” she breathes. She’s snaked a hand down between them again to adjust his slick fingers, and meets his gaze as she holds them in a very specific place. “Use your hand.”

It takes him all of two seconds to realize what she’s asking. “Byleth—”

“I’m sure.” She bites her lip. “If you want to.”

“I do, but—my strength…”

His hands worry him more than anything. He’s already holding back as much as he can, but that display just now proved he can mess up before he even realizes it. And the more heated this exchange becomes, the more distracted he’ll be.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. Her other hand joins the first, gripping Dimitri’s wrist. “I’ll make sure it’s not too much. Just… relax, and do what I show you.”

Her touch is comforting, her easy tone reassuring. After a moment more, he nods.

She lets him push one finger into her on his own, which is just as well since her hands start shaking too much to be helpful. It’s a tighter fit than he expected, and a hot shiver rolls down his spine at the thought of that same pressure and warmth around his throbbing erection.

Once he’s knuckle-deep, he waits, and Byleth draws in a long breath. Her hips shift. She moves her knees, adjusts the angle of his hand a little. She’s learning her way through this just as much as he is. “Move,” she pleads.

He withdraws his hand. Pushes in again. Byleth’s grip on him tightens near the end and he immediately stops, but she urges him a little further.

“Like that,” she says breathlessly, her head falling back with a low groan. “Just—slower. At the end.”

She keeps her hand on his, which makes him feel better. Before long her focus on assisting him breaks, and each of his thrusts is punctuated by a sharp moan and a small push of her hips in return.

Once his rhythm is set, Dimitri settles on his elbow close beside her. She immediately pulls him down and kisses him again, hard and hungry, and her fingers scratch as they work down his back. She yanks his shirt up and he groans as her palms drag against his bare skin. 

When he slides a second finger into her, she bites him with a low whine. The moan with each thrust is now his name, whispered heatedly and longingly, and for the first time Dimitri considers that he might finish before she gets a chance to touch him. It doesn’t deter him in the slightest.

It occurs to him that the rest of his fingers are idle, so with the next thrust he presses his thumb directly against her weak spot again. Byleth smothers her shouts against his mouth as he works her mercilessly, slow and then fast, slow again, shoulders tensed uncomfortably as he reminds himself over and over to be _careful_ —

Her body jerks as she suddenly tightens around his fingers. Other than that rhythmic twinge and the buzz of her long moan against his lips, she falls still, clinging to him as though he’s life itself. Simply watching her, listening to the sounds he’s earned, is more sensation than he can describe.

She relaxes some time later, going slack with a harsh exhale. Dimitri withdraws his hand carefully, making her twitch, but Byleth only strokes his cheek with a dazed smile pressed clumsily against his mouth.

He’s on his back before he knows what’s happening. Byleth’s weight pins his legs as she straddles him, one hand addressing his belt while the other wraps around the bulge still present in his pants. His startled grunt earns a glance—her movements are quick and sure despite how spent she looked moments ago—but he’s not stopping her and soon she’s pulled him free to hold in both hands and _Goddess_ it’s more amazing than he remembers.

He keeps his eyes on her face, too embarrassed to watch her handle him as boldly as she does. Her touch is a curious, exploratory one—perhaps because she didn’t do so last time, or because her desire has been sated for now—and her expression doesn’t betray her impressions, if she has any. She runs a palm under him, over him. She wraps both hands around him, making him grit his teeth, and rubs from base to tip at different speeds and pressures.

He lets her know what he likes with his moans, his jerking motions in response, the sound of his bedspread ripping in his fists. He stares at the ceiling now, flustered by his own behavior—and when her fingertips circle and knead the tip, he shuts his eyes so tight he sees stars and puts all of his focus into _not_ launching her off the bed with a forceful buck of his hips.

Byleth says something, but it’s distant, and Dimitri realizes there’s a long, low growl in his throat drowning her out. He cuts it off in time to hear an amused “I guess you like that just fine.”

She continues to caress the head while her other hand starts slowly pumping the shaft. It’s such a perfect sensation of touch and rhythm that he tries to think of anything _but_ this beautiful girl sitting on him and pleasuring him speechless, because he’ll be damned if he finishes too soon.

For the same reason he bites back the urge to ask _tighter, faster_. He tries to focus on nothing but the darkness behind his eyelids and the throbbing, aching blend of want and satisfaction tearing through his veins and nerves like a torrent. Every touch she gives him is a kind of relief he can’t put into words, but at the same time makes him aggressively eager for more.

It would be so easy to lift her hips and slip inside her, he realizes. If she wanted to, she could probably take him in before he knew what was happening.

He could press her down into his bed and growl into her ear in that way she likes, offering to make love to her as much as she wants, and take her until everything they’ve done until now pales in comparison.

He doesn’t, of course, but the thought that they _could_ gives him another hard shove towards that ledge of mounting sensation.

(And there’s something about _this_ , too—being so close, exercising unspoken restraint. If not for these teasing glimpses, would taking her completely in the future be half as enjoyable? Will he fully appreciate what it means to have all of her without first being taught and acquainted with parts of her, little by little?

He can practically hear Sylvain’s patronizing snort and some comment about being a naive romantic.)

Dimitri’s hands itch to touch the bare thighs gripping his hips, but her ruined dresser comes to mind and he refrains. Not now—not when the anticipation in his gut is wound so tight it hurts.

Right as he thinks he can’t take much more, Byleth leans forward and over him, rubbing the head of his cock between her legs—against that spot that makes her weakest, and it prompts a breathless gasp as her head rolls on her shoulders.

Her name is a strangled noise in his throat as he climaxes. It’s so undeniably carnal, the pleasure he takes from this, but as he pushes up against her with a moan that does little to put his satisfaction into words, the only thought that manages to connect in his head besides how good this feels is how much he surely, utterly, and so hopelessly _loves_ her—wholly, fiercely, and, for that instant, without guilt or grief.

There’s a mild flicker of embarrassment as his heat soils them both, the acute awareness that Byleth’s finish was much less messy than his own. But she didn’t seem to mind it before and she doesn’t seem any more put off this time: she settles back on his thighs, stroking him lightly as he goes soft, and then releasing him once the last of the tension in his body fades. She joins him, cuddling up against his side, and together they catch their breaths.

Neither of them says anything for a while. Byleth draws lazy lines over his chest. Dimitri runs his fingers over her arm, until she guides his hand to her face and shows him, again, how to touch her gently, an easy stroke across her cheek that he quickly and happily picks up.

When he eventually speaks, his voice comes out thin and he has to clear his throat and try again. “I, ah, suppose we’ve stayed away longer than intended.”

“I suppose,” she agrees. She tilts her head back to look at him, smiling in a way that warms him all over. He would be more than happy to spend the rest of the night like this, side-by-side in simple, content silence. “We should get back before you’re missed.”

Dimitri gives a short laugh. “I’m certain I’m not the one they’re missing.” He feels a small twinge of jealousy in his chest at the thought of returning to the crowd, of being sought out and invited into conversations or dances apart from one other, but it quickly fades. It’s arrogant of him to think he can monopolize her time, especially when he knows she’ll gladly return to his arms at the next opportunity.

He gives her face one last, careful caress before sitting up. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering, Byleth’s brief disappearance after the Tower was so she could talk Sothis into taking a nap to give them some privacy lol.


	3. Chapter 3

Byleth wakes to a crack of thunder that sends her bolting upright, her chest heaving and head spinning as her instincts scream _wrong, wrong, something’s terribly wrong_ even though they can’t tell her what it is and her mind’s too muddled with sleep to remember. The fear triggers her most basic of responses and her hand flies to the sword she keeps beside her—

Except her fingers grasp air and there’s far too much space for a tent and the bed beneath her is too soft for the bare earth. Lightning illuminates her room just as memory comes flooding back in jagged pieces.

Her room. Garreg Mach.

It was a dream. A memory, rather, of camping with her father’s mercenaries—

Her father.

Her chest tightens so painfully that she gasps. The pounding in her head doubles. Her eyes sting. Her nose is so congested from crying that she can barely breathe.

Her fists clench in her bedsheets as she bites back a small hiccup of distress.

It hurts. She hurts. _Everything_ hurts in a way she can’t describe. She once thought spraining her knee when she was younger was the worst pain she ever went through, but this is worse. _So much_ worse.

She can’t see or touch this pain. She can’t understand it the same way she would a cut or a bruise and that scares her more than anything.

(More than anything _could_ , once. Before she watched the life leave her father’s face.

Before she failed.)

Wrapping her arms around herself, Byleth brings her knees up to her chest and tries to steady her low, harsh breaths. She almost hopes to hear Sothis’ voice interrupt her thoughts, even if it’s just to tell her to pull herself together, but the rain on the windows is the only sound to break the thick silence.

It isn’t surprising. Sothis has come to give Byleth her space now and again, particularly recently—

The thought makes her suck in a harsh breath and hold it. Slowly, she looks down at the still form lying beside her, a light frown on his face even in sleep.

Dimitri has been nothing but considerate and kind since it happened, of course. For as long as she knelt there in the rain, refusing to pry her numb fingers from her father’s coat, Dimitri stayed with her. He shielded her from the elements with his cape as best he could and that was all. He offered no words, didn’t even touch her until prompted, which was just as well given how overwhelmed she already was. Anything else would have been too much.

Perhaps he knows her better than she realized.

Since then he’s stayed with her, held her, spoken when she wanted it and given her silence when she needed it. Even with her mood constantly, unpredictably shifting from one form of negativity to the next—sadness, anger, despair, shock, denial, bouts of total numbness—Dimitri’s gentle responses and mild mannerisms managed to navigate her storm of emotions so that his presence never felt overbearing or suffocating. It was as though he knew just what to do, or not do, when she needed it, without her telling him.

The thought makes Byleth’s chest clench tighter. Despite how heavy her entire body feels, she reaches out to carefully, lightly brush his bangs from his face, and then strokes his cheek.

_Does it ever stop hurting?_

The question has been on her tongue, but she never asked him. She’s afraid of his answer, even if she already suspects what it would be.

Why else would he be seeking revenge against his family’s killers, if not driven by the pain and anger of losing them?

Behind his careful touches and thoughtful words, she saw it: that same fire in his eyes, hot and furious and unforgiving. Before Remire, it was some two years since she saw it last, and it seems he’s just as ashamed of it now as he was back then.

_(“You don’t have to apologize. You were angry. I was, too—”_

_“No, it’s not… just that.” There’s a hardness in Dimitri’s face that she doesn’t recognize, something that draws lines around his mouth and under his eyes and he’s never looked so tired. “I’m sorry I hid it from you.”_

_“It’s not like I asked if—”_

_“Even so.” His voice comes out sharp and he immediately looks mortified, dropping his gaze. “Forgive me. It’s just that I… I didn’t know how to approach the subject, even after all this time. It’s no excuse, but… as foolish as it was,” he says solemnly, “I think I was hoping that you had managed to forget. You’ve never held it against me, after all.”_

_She’s not sure why he looks so sad as he says it. She knows that he’s more than his fits of rage; she’s convinced he would never hurt anyone without cause. Why does he feel the need to explain himself to her, of all people?_

_Byleth takes his hand and feels him twitch, but he doesn’t resist._

_“I know what it’s like... to keep unbelievable secrets,” she says quietly. “There are things I haven’t told anyone because I know how mad they sound. So… I understand that much, at least. Just because things are different now doesn’t mean you have to hide anything from me.”_

_The flicker of uncertainty over his face is hard to miss—perhaps he doesn’t believe her—but in the end he nods.)_

For the first time, Byleth feels that she might understand that side of him.

If— _when_ —she finds those responsible, won’t she feel much the same as he did in Remire? Angry, eager to cut down those who deserve it? And why wouldn’t her feelings be justified? Why shouldn’t she hate those who enjoy hurting others—why shouldn’t she kill them if given the chance, even make them suffer first if she can?

Just thinking about it makes her hands shake. She’s never _wanted_ to kill anyone before. It’s always been a necessity, a means to survival, but this…

This time is different.

This time, she’s looking forward to it.

The next time Byleth wakes, the room is still dark and the rain still falling, making her wonder if she slept at all. But there’s a weight against her back that wasn’t quite so close before, and she can tell from the sound of Dimitri’s breathing that he’s awake.

“What time is it?” Her voice cracks, thick with the tears she spent to fall asleep. The arm around her waist loosens some, but she makes no move to rise.

“A little after dawn.” In contrast, his voice is clear and alert. He’s been awake.

Less than a day.

Her father’s been dead for less than a day but the weight pinning her to the bed feels like it’s been building for years.

She draws a shuddering breath, but doesn’t trust herself to speak. Dimitri leans into her hair, solid enough to be comforting but too light to crowd her.

After a few minutes, she murmurs, “I’ll be alright if you leave. You don’t have to stay.” She wishes she could sound more confident than she does.

“I want to,” he assures her softly, predictably. “Being here is all that matters to me.”

Byleth rolls onto her back to look at him. Once, she would have pointed out that he had nothing to gain by missing his classes. She would have thought logically rather than emotionally.

Now, she can’t imagine how much harder this would be without Dimitri here.

Tears bite at her eyes again. It’s illogical—having him here should make her happy, should do _something_ to fill the void in her chest, but somehow even his dedication to her hurts. Anything and everything seems to grate on the raw mess of emotion weighing on her every thought.

She’s not sure she’ll ever understand how the heart works.

Byleth buries herself in his chest. He holds her without another word, unfaltering despite the tears soaking his shirt and the occasional muffled sob. Only once a while has passed and her shaking has stopped does he finally speak again.

“Byleth… you know that my power is yours to command.” His voice is calm, as smooth and gentle as the fingers that brush her hair back from her face. “ _I_ am yours. When the time comes… I will kill anyone should you ask it of me.”

It’s spoken as fondly and lovingly as anything he’s ever said to her. The words are different, but the tone and the implication in them are the same as when he promised she meant the world to him.

If not for the grief threatening to suffocate her, that low voice would surely have sent a chill down her spine and urged her to pull him desperately, hungrily closer to lose herself in him completely.

Instead, she only feels a faint flicker of something positive in the depths of her grief, the first since failing to see the flash of that knife until it was too late.

Something angry and ugly, but positive.

* * *

“May I join you?”

Byleth starts slightly and turns to find Dimitri standing at the edge of the pier. The flat, concentrated line of her mouth immediately breaks into a soft smile. “Of course. Were you looking for me?”

“In a sense, yes.” He takes a seat on her left, mimicking her posture to hang his legs over the edge of the platform. There’s no missing the tired shadows under his eyes, but she doesn’t detect any of his recent tension. He looks tired, but at ease. “If you weren’t here, I would have assumed you wanted privacy and left you to it.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not avoiding anyone. I just… needed some air. To think.”

“If I’m interrupting—”

“No. Stay. Please.”

He does. For a couple minutes they say nothing, staring out at the inky black skyline and the few stars that manage to peer through the clouds.

“You’re still feeling alright?” Dimitri asks suddenly. “No ill effects?”

“None,” she assures him. “I think I just needed a good rest.”

His expression softens. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

“But have you gotten used to it yet?” Byleth wonders, and can’t help a smile when he seems to do a double take.

“Well—mostly. It’s quite a change. I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he throws in, sounding apologetic. “You’re still as lovely as ever. It’s just—”

She chuckles. “I know what you meant.”

Her humor must be contagious, since he also breaks into an amused smile. He raises a hand and tucks a lock of her seafoam green hair behind her ear. “It suits you.”

She feels her face starting to grow warm and looks out over the pond again. “I never did say thank you.” When she turns to him again, he’s watching her attentively, seriously. “I never could have done it without all of you. But you… especially you. Thank you.”

Her words aren’t exactly eloquent, but Dimitri’s solemn nod is enough of an answer. “I merely supported you. Your achievement was your own.”

It wasn’t the ending Byleth pictured, or necessarily hoped for, but what matters is that Kronya is dead. Solon, as well, for whatever part he played in the grand scheme of things. She’s satisfied enough with that, and for Dimitri’s sake, as well.

Even when he isn’t keeping her company at night, it’s been obvious he isn’t sleeping well, and Dedue only confirmed it when she questioned him. Dimitri’s been restless, uncharacteristically short with others, and even brushed off her concerns a couple times when she raised them. It’s strange and more than a little worrying, but Byleth reasoned he was dealing with recent pressures in his own way, having been just as committed to striking back at her enemies as she was. Now, surely, judging by his lighter mood, he’s getting back to normal.

“I know grief isn’t healed so easily.” Dimitri grasps her shoulder lightly, interrupting her thoughts. “But I hope avenging Jeralt helped you find some manner of peace.”

Byleth gives a low hum. “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t know if I’m happy,” she admits slowly. “It’s not like what I did can bring him back. But it feels like... I’ve done something right.” Her lips edge toward another thoughtful frown. “I don’t think he would have wanted me to hunt those people down for his sake. But… I know he would have gone after them himself, if he’d had the chance. To put a stop to whatever they’re doing.”

Her shoulders rise and fall with a soft sigh. “I feel… proud of that, I guess. But it still doesn’t feel real. Or… it feels like I’m not ready to feel proud yet. Maybe.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know. But I think we did the right thing.”

“As do I.” After a gentle rub of her shoulder, his hand falls away and the silence returns.

_The right thing,_ she muses. _But…_

Tilting her head forward, she watches her hair slip over her shoulders. A constant, stinging reminder.

Her next words linger uncertainly on her tongue.

“Did you really believe me earlier? When I said that this…” She turns her hands over in her lap, studying her palms. “...was the power of the Goddess? It’s fine if you don’t,” she adds, with what she hopes is a sincere expression. “I know it’s… That it sounds…”

Dimitri shakes his head almost immediately. “It’s as I said. I witnessed your power with my own eyes. But even had I not… your word is enough.” He smiles at her, warm and easy and earnest.

Byleth inhales and holds it for a moment. She’s not sure she should be _this_ honest. And yet… if not Dimitri, who _can_ she talk to about it? No one, she’s certain.

Maybe he’s rubbed off on her, or maybe it’s just the weight of all that’s happened lately, but her feelings are harder to hide these days. Even if she says nothing, he’ll probably pick up on it sooner or later.

“And… if I told you I knew her personally? Would you believe that?”

He studies her face for a few beats, his smile fading into an expression of calm, focused interest. “It isn’t like you to jest in such a manner. For you to even ask such a thing, I feel inclined to believe it.”

She laces her fingers together, stalling. After a long moment, she can’t think of any way to put it other than bluntly. “I do. Or… I did. I can’t hear her anymore, but… until yesterday, we’d been together for… well, always, according to her. But I only remember talking to her for the past couple years.”

Dimitri doesn’t immediately reply. Byleth doesn’t look up. She knows she’s asking a lot of him. It’s unfair of her, really. Maybe she should—

“What’s she like?”

Surprised, Byleth blinks at him, but there’s only curiosity written in his face as he watches her. A weary smirk tugs at her mouth as she rolls her head, gripping the edge of the pier. “Absolutely nothing like what I’d picture a goddess to be.”

That prompts a surprised chuckle. “Truly?”

“Mm-hm. She was… proud. Curious about everything. Always had something to say. She was stubborn, impatient, and blunt, and didn’t like being contradicted.” She stares down into the water, swinging her legs lightly as she goes on. “But… she also laughed a lot. She told me she liked to dance. She loved music. She could be harsh, but she was kind. She…”

A sharp twinge in her chest makes her wince. Her mouth feels dry. “She was… my friend, really. I’ll…” Her smile wavers. “I’ll miss her.”

“Is it not possible she’ll speak to you again?”

“I don’t think so. Giving me her power… it had a cost. She said we wouldn’t be able to talk anymore.”

“I see.” Dimitri’s voice sounds as heavy as her heart feels. Even if he doesn’t fully understand, he still feels for her as much as he’s able. That compassion is just one more thing she admires about him.

She sets her hand atop his. “She liked you,” she adds with a playful tilt of her head.

“Well, that’s a relief.” He sounds appropriately relieved, but he shifts his weight as he looks away, clearly self-conscious. After a pause, he remarks, “But I can’t imagine what that must have been like. I’ve no doubt you were fortunate to know her, but in your place I don’t know how I would have fared. To know the Goddess is watching you in such a way…”

“I didn’t know who she was at first,” she replies with a shrug. “I only became aware of her shortly after I met you, actually. It wasn’t until I visited Fhirdiad that I started to suspect, but… I don’t think I really believed it until I came here.” And even then, not completely—not until Sothis confirmed it herself a day ago.

Dimitri hums thoughtfully. “So… I suppose this is the secret you’ve been keeping.”

“One of them.” Her control over time is much more complicated, and not something she’s sure she can prove, anyway. At Dimitri’s glance, she smiles again and they both laugh— _really_ laugh. For the first time in so long, that heavy pang in Byleth’s chest lightens, and it’s even forgotten for a happy few seconds.

“I’ve missed your smile.”

She finds Dimitri studying her, his own tender expression the happiest she’s seen it since…

Her hand slips beneath his to hold it proper. He grips back as she leans into him, her head on his shoulder, and he brushes a light kiss against her hair.

“What do you think will happen at the Holy Tomb, then?” he asks a couple quiet minutes later.

“I wonder. If the legend’s true, maybe I really will hear her again.”

He must sense the doubt in her voice. “You didn’t tell this to Lady Rhea?” he deduces.

“You’re the first.” Byleth runs her thumb over the grooves of his gauntlet.

“You don’t think she would be happy to hear it?”

She hums low in her throat. “I’m not sure what she really wants. I want to see what happens at the ritual first, before I decide anything.”

“I see.” He turns that over, perhaps, before raising her hand to kiss the back of it. “Your secret’s safe with me, Byleth. Thank you for entrusting me with it.” He sounds genuinely touched by the sentiment.

She exhales softly, not quite a laugh but amused all the same. Always so proper.

“Well, you’re good at keeping them.” She perches her chin on his shoulder, eying him pointedly, and he looks sheepish as he leans in to kiss her forehead.

“Some things are better kept between two people.” The words roll over her skin; her fingers tighten around his. She’s not sure if there’s any intention in the way he lowers his voice like that, deep and hushed like a secret in itself, but it fills her with a warmth she hasn’t felt in a while.

He kisses her temple, her cheek, patient and chaste, and when she turns to catch his mouth he kisses her just the same. It’s brief—late or not, they’re still very much in the open and she knows he’s humble in that regard—but being held snug against his side is just as fulfilling, and Byleth sighs quietly to let him know it as she presses into his chest and breathes him in.

For all the jarring changes of late, this much is the same. For a peaceful, pleasant, faraway moment, it’s enough, and she dares to hope it will stay that way.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s well past midnight and they’re both still awake. It feels like hours since either of them last spoke, but their light breaths and the strokes of Byleth’s hand behind his shoulders are proof that sleep is evading both of them.

Dimitri’s arms are loose around her, holding her to his chest more out of habit than conscious effort. His absent gaze bores into the opposite wall of his room as it has for a while now, as if his eyes might pierce the stone walls and the miles of land between the monastery and the Empire through sheer willpower.

They never do, of course, and he stirs again from his turbulent thoughts to the peaceful silence and Byleth’s warmth and the soft bed beneath them. Just a few weeks ago this would have been enough, or at least something close to it.

They’re both fully clothed, except for when she helped him out of his gauntlets and he stripped out of his jacket to his black undershirt. It’s an intimately simple moment that they’ll steal for themselves for as long as they’re able.

Despite wearing a little less, Dimitri’s skin runs uncomfortably hot. For every moment he lies here in her arms he feels suffocated, unbearably useless and selfish. His hands itch for action and his grudges scream for blood along with the din of voices buzzing in the back of his mind. He feels sick with idleness, his anxiety and anger and unease hitting him in waves until he’s not sure what he feels anymore, other than the red hot hatred boiling underneath it all.

He knows that he should be doing something, anything—not lying here as if he has the luxury. As if he deserves it.

But the dead aren’t his only obligation. That’s the only reason he’s still here, why he’s still this composed only hours away from fulfilling—or failing—his purpose for living up to this point.

As if detecting his thoughts, Byleth finally breaks the silence by looking up into his face.

“Dimitri.” She waits for him to look at her. “We’re going to make it through tomorrow,” she says simply, quietly. “And the day after that. However long it takes.”

For a brief, surprised moment he almost forgets his bad mood. It isn’t like her to speak in certainties about things that can’t immediately be proven, or at least quantified. Her eyes are confident as they hold his, as if daring him to argue.

After so many days of single-minded fury, Dimitri feels something inside him soften.

“We will,” he agrees, mirroring her conviction.

He won’t die. He won’t because he _can’t_ —not until he’s torn Edelgard apart with his own hands, repaying her for just a fraction of the pain and barbarity she’s inflicted on others. On him.

Byleth can’t die. She won’t, because she’s stronger than he’ll ever be and if anyone lives it will surely, surely be her. Dimitri can’t imagine a world in which she dies young to have any sort of justice, any kind of balance or fairness in it whatsoever.

And even if— _when_ he quenches the dead’s thirst for imperial blood, what purpose would the world still have for him if she isn’t in it?

He brushes his fingertips along the curve of her cheek with practiced care. He feels himself smile as his eyes lose focus and her face blurs. “We’ll take the heads of every single one of those monsters,” he promises softly, the words nearly quivering with joy. “Both of us. We’ll make them pay for everything.”

Just as he’s dreamed of for _so long_ now. How fitting that they’ll do it together—finishing this chapter of his life so that he can start another, better one with her.

Byleth’s gaze lowers. Her hand on his back slows to a stop.

“Is that what you want?”

Dimitri’s chest feels cold as that _something_ in him hardens again, icing over defensively. “It doesn’t matter what I do or do not want, in the end. It’s what _must_ be done.”

She doesn’t respond, but there’s a shade of acceptance in her solemn expression when she looks at him again. She covers his hand with her own, linking their fingers, and kisses him lightly.

“Don’t lose yourself,” she breathes into him.

Dimitri stiffens. She hasn’t once criticized him—not for his harsh words, nor his violent and overeager methods. It’s only ever been concern and sadness cast his way, no matter how deeply she’s seen into his darkness. Even when she held his hands, literally dripping with blood, shortly after they left the Holy Tomb, it was only to fix him with that soul-searching gaze and reassure him that she was still there, they were _all_ still there, and that he wasn’t alone.

Part of him—the very part she fears he’ll lose—aches with the regret that she feels obligated to ask this of him.

This time, his smile is for her, as sad as it is.

“Losing myself would mean losing you.” He returns her gentle kiss, and then looks over her face thoughtfully. As long as she’s here, as long as he has her to return to, he knows he’ll never lose himself completely. She’s the only thing still holding his head above the proverbial waters. “Come tomorrow, I don’t only fight for myself, Byleth.”

She runs her fingers through his bangs, biting her lip. “Stay near me,” she whispers. “No matter what. We’ll make sure we both get through this.”

“I will.”

“Promise me.”

It doesn’t seem like her, stressing such a thing—but perhaps, after all she’s seen in him, it’s a way of comforting herself.

For a very brief moment, there is no impending war, no Edelgard, no personal vendetta that’s defined Dimitri’s existence for the last few years—there’s only himself and Byleth and the very real threat of losing this once-in-a-lifetime chance that they’ve found in one another.

It’s enough to convince him that he can—and will—keep her promise without question.

He shifts to lean over her, keeping most of his weight on his arms. Her legs tangle easily with his as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I do,” he vows.

She cups his face with one hand and a solemn smile. Dimitri leans into the touch, kissing her palm, and she doesn’t take long to redirect his mouth to hers.

She’s as soft and warm and wonderful as ever, but there’s something different in her slow kiss—each movement is patient and deliberate, as if she means to memorize every bit of him. Her hands can’t get enough of him, gliding appreciatively over his face and shoulders and back and repeating.

He tries to match her movements, but all his restless energy finally has an outlet. He can’t resist kissing her deeply enough to make her breath quicken, or grasping and caressing her side, her thigh, a bit faster and rougher than he would normally allow.

His hand slips underneath her and Byleth arches up against him with the softest of moans. The sound is lovely, as is her soft body flush against his and the way her fingers curl in his hair—but rather than the usual rush of heat that such things would normally prompt, Dimitri only feels a vague ripple of desire, lukewarm at best. It’s almost like an afterthought.

His attention is fixed instead on the movements of his hand, now tracing lines over her collarbones and throat. Her smooth, slender neck is alluring and he slides his fingers behind it, his thumb cautiously grazing over her quickened pulse.

A dark kind of thrill seizes him as he considers the extent of Byleth’s trust—allowing his destructive hands so close to her vulnerable throat. Once, he would have been far too nervous to touch her as he does now.

Her hot breaths continue to fill his mouth, warm his lips, brush his skin. His movements are the same, stroking and kneading her neck with the attentive, gentle care that he only knows because of her, even as he kisses her with enough force to bruise.

He wonders if Edelgard will feel this frail in his grasp. One hand is all he’ll need; he’s sure his fingers can reach all the way around her small neck.

Their kiss deepens and so do his thoughts. His imagination wanders again to thoughts of tomorrow, playing vividly, eagerly with ideas of the justice he’ll finally, _finally_ deliver with his own hands. Screams in his ears, blood soaking hot and heavy through to his skin, the whisper of strain just before bone shatters beneath his fingers—it sends a shiver through him that even Byleth’s touches can’t manage at the moment.

How long will it take for her skin to grow cold once she’s dead? War or no, he’ll find the time to wait.

When he chokes the life out of her, will her pulse run as fast as Byleth’s does now? Faster? He hopes so. He hopes he’ll be able to feel every terrified beat of her heart hammering against his skin, a silent countdown to her demise. He’s earned no less.

Byleth breathes a low moan as more of his weight presses down on her. Her kiss is gasping, breathless, her fist tight and desperate in his shirt.

Will he see fear in her eyes or will she be stubborn up until the very end? Will she fight him or accept her death with what dignity she has left? Will she die in proud silence or grace him with the musical sound of her strangled, weakening voice begging for mercy?

Dimitri doesn’t know. He can’t say anything with confidence about her anymore, but that’s fine by him. The surprise will make it all the more rewarding.

Suddenly Byleth yanks his hair _hard._ He snarls in surprise as his head is forced back, and again when she strikes his chest and sends him rolling off the bed.

He hits the floor in a confused heap, his mess of thoughts tumbling over one another as he tries to make sense of it. He quickly sits upright, nursing his numb elbow and wincing at a bruised rib, but his defensive demand for an explanation instantly dies on his tongue.

Byleth’s wide eyes are locked on him as she pants, deep and rasping like she just ran a mile. Above her heaving chest, the normally pale skin of her throat is a bright, painful red.

The realization is like a second blow to his gut.

Everything he’s been feeling—anger, frustration, bloodlust, impatience—drains out of him as quickly as the blood from his face. Horror floods his veins.

“Byleth… I…” He starts to reach for her, but the sight of his own scarred hand hits him with a hot wave of nausea and he recoils.

He could have killed her.

He nearly did.

If she hadn’t reacted—if his grip had been just a little tighter—

There wouldn’t have been time to choke her. He would have snapped her neck then and there.

“I’m…” His throat feels thick, his head light.

“Dimitri?” Her voice is raw and weak and it hurts him to hear it. “What happened?”

She isn’t angry. She doesn’t even look scared. The look in her eyes is the same one he’s seen more and more lately.

She’s worried. About him.

_It’s a lie. It’s always been a lie._

_You know what your hands are good for._

_No matter how much you pretend, you know you can’t—_

He manages to stand despite how numb his body feels. “I… I should go.”

“Dimitri—”

“I _can’t,_ ” he hisses. “I could have—”

In a heartbeat Byleth’s standing in front of him, grasping his hands between hers. It suddenly feels _wrong_ now, her skin against his, and Dimitri wants to pull away as if to keep her from catching his mind’s sickness—but the fear of harming her again, and her hard expression, keep him from struggling against her.

“It wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t.”

He winces, hanging his head. “Byleth—I explained it to you, this is—”

“ _Not_ who you really are,” she insists, but she doesn’t understand, of course she doesn’t, no one can because in the end he’s alone no matter how many people he surrounds himself with. Only he can hear the voices, only he can appease their vengeful hunger.

He was always meant to be alone. He’s been a fool for pretending otherwise.

He tries to take a slow step back but her grip on his wrists tightens.

“No.” It’s a firm, stubborn objection, and she holds his gaze with that determined fire in her eyes that he loves so much. He just wishes it wasn’t wasted on him. “No,” she repeats more quietly.

When she steps back, her grasp unrelenting, he follows. He lets her back him up against the bed, doesn’t resist the mindful push that sits him down on it. Her weight sinking into the mattress beside him isn’t as comforting as it was minutes ago.

They sit in heavy silence.

“You just promised you wouldn’t leave me,” Byleth murmurs finally. “Are you already going back on that?”

Dimitri flinches. The mattress groans beneath his grip. “I want you to be safe. If I can’t give you that…” Byleth waits, but he doesn’t finish.

He really is selfish.

“You don’t need to give me anything.” Her tone is harsh, but the hand on his knee is gentle. “Just a few weeks ago, you respected my choice to charge right into an enemy ambush because I _wanted_ to. You didn’t tell me it wasn’t safe. You watched my back and I watched yours. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

He wants to believe her. Goddess above, he wants to, but this feels like the rudest of awakenings. What sort of hypocrite was he, thinking he can gleefully tear apart the living one moment and hold her the next with the same bloodied, beastly hands? What sort of fool was he, thinking those lines wouldn’t cross one day?

“If this happens again,” he starts, his tone pleading—begging her to understand, but Byleth doesn’t budge.

“Then I’ll hit you again. It’s that simple.”

Dimitri breathes a humorless laugh, shaking his head with a grimace of a smile. “Byleth.”

“I’m serious. If that’s what I have to do, I will.”

He bristles. “You shouldn’t have to protect yourself from me.”

She doesn’t reply. When the silence stretches on, he starts to think he might have actually gotten through to her.

And then she stands in front of him, nudging his knees apart with her leg to stand between them so that he has to tilt his head back to see her.

“Touch me,” she says flatly.

“What?”

“Touch me,” she repeats, unblinking, and suddenly her eyes have the shallow, empty look that they used to, back when he first knew her. “Don’t hold back anymore. If I can handle you now, when you’re like this, I can handle you anytime.”

A scoff escapes his lips before he can stop it. “Don’t be absurd,” he mutters darkly, looking away, but her fingers catch his chin and force his eyes back up.

“I know what to expect.” If he didn’t already know her well enough to figure she’s not joking, her utterly serious expression alone would convince him. “If you think you can surprise me, prove it. Show me what you’re afraid of.”

To his frustration, something inside him twists with interest. Something that also likes looking up at her like this, that finds a dark satisfaction in her rigid expression and the firm grip on his face. His pulse speeds up like a drum in his ears.

“You said I’m the only one who can beat you in an earnest fight,” she reminds him. “Was that a lie?”

“No—”

“Why is this any different?”

Dimitri exhales sharply. “It just…”

“We can have sex now, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He starts, too caught off guard to even be properly embarrassed. “What? No, that’s—”

“That’s the worst-case scenario, isn’t it?” she asks coolly. “You think you’ll forget yourself in the heat of the moment?” He doesn’t answer. Her hand falls away from him. “If that’s the only way to be sure, then fine. Let’s do it.”

He shakes his head lightly, the gesture as mild as his voice. “No.”

Her hands touch his shoulders. Her words are just above a whisper, and more meaningful than she might even realize. “I trust you.”

For a second he entertains the thought that she’s right—that he can give her his worst, for the sake of proving one of them right. If she’s warned ahead of time, he’s sure she can take whatever he gives. Whether she would regret it is another matter, but at least they’ll know for sure.

And reason aside, it’s tempting. Sorely tempting. Whatever his intentions and promises, the reality is that they sit on the eve of a war that one or both of them might not walk away from. If nothing else, they could give each other this. It might be the last chance they have.

_But._

Dimitri’s hands clench at his sides. His answer is even and steady.

“No.”

Her grip tightens almost imperceptibly. “Dimitri—”

_“No,”_ he snaps, and his voice rises enough that it’s almost a bark. He feels her tense as if to pull away, but she stays.

She always stays.

He draws a slow breath. Releases it. His shoulders sag. “Not… like this,” he murmurs. “Not to prove a point.” Dimitri raises his eyes to hers—and as hypocritical as it is, he can’t resist the urge any longer. He reaches for her, settling his hands against her warm thighs, and after a moment more he leans forward and rests his head against her stomach.

He hates himself for being this weak. He hates himself for feeling relieved when she perches her hands atop his hair, accepting him.

Most of all, he hates himself for saying the worst thing that he possibly can at this moment—the one thing that will make sure she won’t let him go.

“I love you more than that.”

He’s not sure how long they stay there, her arms wrapped around him as she leans over him, supporting him as much as she’s being supported. Byleth is the one to eventually end it, but only so she can climb back into the bed and tug him after her by the hand. With his arm around her shoulders she settles comfortably against his side, her head on his chest.

As peaceful as it is, Dimitri’s not sure any sleep will come of it.

He watches her run her fingertips over his knuckles, which turns into a massage as she rubs her thumb along his palm.

“I know what your hands have done.” Her low voice hums against his chest. “Mine aren’t much different, when you get down to it.”

_You’ve never killed like I have. You don’t enjoy how it feels to break bones or beat flesh until it splits—_

“But your hands also helped me learn what it is to be gentle,” Byleth says quietly.

He stares down at her, dumbstruck. “I… How?”

She seems to bite back a small smile as she tilts her head to look at him, but there’s some vague amusement in her bright eyes as they drop to the side. “My father wasn’t exactly… You can probably guess that he didn’t raise me to be very ladylike. I know what it’s like, not always knowing your own strength. I wasn’t used to touching people before coming here, either, except when it was strictly necessary.”

Her hand falls still. “That’s why… the first time you and I kissed, I thought it was strange. You were so… _careful_ with me. I thought you were just nervous, or inexperienced like I was, but… that’s how you’ve been since. And you’ve gotten better at being gentle. I think I just… followed your lead, a lot of the time.”

Dimitri returns his gaze to the ceiling, considering that. He can’t remember if she was rough or clumsy in the beginning. Everything she does has always been admirable and attractive through the lens of his infatuation with her, so he might not be the best judge.

“We’re going to mess up sometimes,” she adds with a light shrug. “But you’re... you have a lot on your mind right now. I can’t hold that against you.”

His mouth has barely opened when she presses a finger to it. “And before you argue, think about how you’d feel if it was the other way around.”

His mouth closes, frowns, but he sees her point, even if he doesn’t think the two of them are comparable in that regard. She can hurt him if she’s not being careful, sure, but never to the point of endangering his life.

Then again… after what he’s seen of her true power—after coming to believe that she knows the Goddess personally—maybe he doesn’t know her potential as well as he thinks he does.

Dimitri sighs. For their first real argument, he’s lost spectacularly.

“Regardless…” He ghosts his fingertips down her cheek to her neck, where he’s certain she’ll have a set of deep bruises tomorrow. “I am sorry for hurting you.”

Byleth hugs his waist. “It’s alright.”

That, it seems, is the end of it.

It isn’t long before Dimitri’s thoughts return to where they were before, but this time he makes an effort to curb the darkest of them, at least. He tries running over the battle plans they discussed earlier in the day—Seteth, several of the knights, Byleth, Claude, and himself, but he struggled to focus at the time. A silent part of him sneered at the talk of strategy, convinced that all he needed was the knowledge of Edelgard’s whereabouts. He would take her head and, with it, the backbone of her army.

Even now, that part of him paces impatiently back and forth in a building storm of rage, stubbornly convinced that his self-interest is justified, that the world at large must also revolve around his personal vendetta.

His eyes feel dry and sore. The dull throb at the base of his skull has moved up to his temples. He’s exhausted, emotionally and physically, but still his mind refuses to sleep.

He rubs his face as Byleth speaks up. “Still awake?” She sounds as though she’s no closer to sleeping herself.

“Mm. I’ll be surprised if many people are sleeping well tonight.”

She echoes his hum, tracing lines along his chest again. “Dimitri,” she says hesitantly, some minutes later, “I want you to say no to this if you don’t want to do it.”

“What is it?”

She shifts in place a little, falls still, shifts again. Then she sits up, and slips a leg over him so that she’s straddling his stomach. She stares down at him thoughtfully, regarding him as calmly and casually as though he’s a book she’s perusing.

“Byleth?”

She presses her warm palm to his chest. “I want to… see you.” She pauses, and then meets his gaze. “All of you.”

“You want...?” It takes him a moment. Against all odds, his mood lifts just enough for him to feel a little flustered. He clears his throat. “Is… there a reason that you…?”

She sits up straighter, pushing her hair behind her shoulders. “I guess it’s a strange thing to ask, but…” Her lips twist slightly as she chooses her words. “I want to sleep as close to you as I can tonight.” Another pause. “And… you to me.”

Ah. Dimitri catches on.

“That’s all?”

A nod. “That’s all. Just to touch.” Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “No… just to feel. If you want to.”

It doesn’t even occur to him to refuse her, even with the uncertain heat creeping up his neck. He covers her hand and holds it to his chest.

“I’d like that, as well.”

Byleth leads them to their feet, but for a long moment they simply stand with their hands joined and his mouth against the top of her head. He doesn’t think she’ll back down from this, but he wants to be sure that _she’s_ sure before he does anything, and so he only waits.

Her answer comes in her fingers easing from his, and then slipping under the edge of his shirt.

He lets her pull it up to his shoulders before he takes it the rest of the way and tosses it aside. Her eyes roam his bare chest slowly, almost methodically—top to bottom, alternating left to right and right to left, as if keen on inspecting every inch of skin.

Her touch follows, tenderly mapping a trail from his throat down to his hips.

“Turn around.”

It has the tone of a question, but despite the tightening of his mouth, Dimitri obeys.

Her silence is the longest one yet.

The featherlight touch of her fingertips between his shoulders, where the scars run widest and deepest, sends a chill through him.

He isn’t prepared for the light, careful kiss she places there. He inhales sharply.

“Do they still hurt?” Her voice and her breath on his skin are just as soft.

“No. Not at all.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “Do they bother you?”

Another kiss, and then what feels like her forehead propped against him. “No.” Her arms wind around his waist, pulling herself to him, and for another moment they stay like that.

Then Byleth steps around in front of him, watching him. And waits.

Heart pounding, Dimitri takes hold of her nightshirt, which feels too thin and frail in his rough hands. Carefully, he pulls it up as she raises her arms.

He expected smallclothes, an undershirt, a corset, _something_ , but his breath catches when he finds only skin beneath. She watches his face with a calmness he both respects and envies, no hint of shame in her features as he takes his turn to look her over. His hands stay at his sides until she guides them to her waist.

Her smile reassures him even before she speaks. “It’s okay.”

It probably shouldn’t bother him after what they’ve done before now, but there’s something different about ghosting his fingertips up her flat stomach, something intimately new about tracing the generous curve of her breast before cupping it in his hand.

Judging by the way her eyes flutter closed, Byleth feels the same.

He can’t help marveling at how _soft_ she is, how pliant the flesh as it spills over his fingers. The velvet-soft nipple hardens at his touch, and brushing it tentatively with his thumb makes her bite her lip with a low moan.

He’s already hard. They’re only halfway there and his body’s craving her so _much_ , the voice of desire rising against the rest.

She lets out a shaky breath, smiling awkwardly. “Maybe I didn’t think this through.” But she’s already reaching for his belt and then it’s off, his pants and breeches both tugged down his hips a moment later and both of them are flushed now, both breathing a little heavier and moving a little faster.

She guides them back to the bed in a tangle of skin and harsh panting, whispering his name over and over as his weight settles on top of her and they hold tight to one another, she with desperate force and he with all the self-control he can manage. Her bare body curves against his in all the right ways, warm and breathtaking and surely what it means to be _perfect_.

It’s almost more sensation than he can process.

He kisses her shoulder, the side of her neck, again and again, if just to keep from finding her mouth and losing himself completely—but from her neck he finds her collarbone, from her collarbone the rising slope of her breasts, and she shivers when he stalls by pressing slow, heavy kisses just above them.

“Touch me,” she breathes— _pleads_ —and the words are loud in the silence.

He obliges without reservation. He touches every part of her, hands and mouth and sometimes both, until she’s trembling and sweating and gasping, until he’s doing the same. He feels and traces every curve until he knows her better than he knows himself. He commits as much as he can to memory, her favorite spots and the noises she makes and every one of her scars and how hard his lips can tug at her skin before her sounds of pleasure turn to discomfort.

He works down her body and back up. He growls _Turn over_ in her ear and she obeys and he does it all over again.

He works her slowly, every motion as tender as it is agonizing for how obviously he’s ignoring the hot desire gripping them both, the hard ache that makes their hips twitch at the slightest contact.

He makes them absolutely desperate for each other—but it’s his hand that finally slips between her thighs, gifting her a swift and shuddering release that sings his praise in stuttered moans and muffled cries that he’ll never forget.

For a short, sweet time, there’s nothing and no one else in the world but her, and it’s enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna split this into two chapters because of its ridiculous length (10k+ words?? I'm sorry), but ultimately decided what the hey, it's the weekend and we're all in quarantine anyway so here have at it

Byleth adjusted the cloak around her shoulders, stepping a little closer to the arch of the open gate. Her mild frown betrayed her displeasure at the crisp spring weather that would have been much warmer down south by now. She didn’t often think in terms of _likes_ and _dislikes_ , but the chill of Faerghus was one of few things that made her wish for something better.

“Kid.”

She turned at the call to see her father standing further up the village path, his mouth an unreadable flat line that could challenge even her most apathetic expression. One of his scouts stood beside him, which could only mean one thing.

“With me,” Jeralt told her, and indicated with a jerk of his head that she follow. Byleth fell into step beside him a moment later. 

Despite the fair weather and the sun not quite having set, there were few civilians to be seen in the streets. Most of Jeralt’s mercenaries were waiting on the main road, while others were making rounds along the perimeter or scouting further out. There had been a still air of anticipation all morning, but most of them had weapons drawn and looked the most alert that they’d been since setting up camp the night before. They wouldn’t be waiting much longer.

“How many?” Jeralt asked.

“Three dozen at the time,” the scout, Victor, answered gruffly.

“Hm. Funny they didn’t just tell us to clear out then and there.” To Byleth, Jeralt remarked, “Seems kingdom forces are passing through. The commander wants to see me.”

She took in that information without comment. The displeasure in her father’s voice was clear, but she wasn’t sure what he was concerned about. Even she knew that Faerghus was in a state of political turmoil, and had been for some time now; it was a popular topic of conversation, especially since it had landed their company so many jobs of late. That was about the extent of her knowledge, since names and places and conflicts that didn’t concern her personally weren’t worth the energy of paying attention to, let alone memorizing.

All she knew for sure was that some sort of power struggle had caused an increase in problems for the locals－usually of the bandit variety, although they had crossed blades with a noble’s private militia twice now in the last three months. Something about rebellions and civil conflicts, which usually meant civilians were caught in the middle.

“What do you think they want?” she asked.

“That’s the million-gold question. But we’re just going to talk. That’s all.”

Byleth nodded as she caught the undertone there. Whatever happened, she was only to draw her blade if told to－or if her life was clearly in danger.

Rather than the entire platoon, only a dozen of its members awaited them. Sitting just inside the main gate, all were on horseback and wore uniforms and polished armor. Each man was armed and most of them had their faces concealed by fullheaded helmets. The only one who didn’t was positioned at the head of the group, and he was the one to speak.

“Sir Jeralt, I presume?” His voice was lighter than what Byleth was used to－on the border of being childlike, but more mature than that of any child she could remember. His appearance gave her the same impression: young, skinny for a soldier, probably still growing, but his posture was straight-backed and confident despite the armor weighing on his frame. He wore the kind of smile that their clients often did, polite and attentive.

“Just Jeralt, if you please,” her father answered. Byleth couldn’t help a sidelong glance up at him. She never heard him speak that politely.

The young man－boy, rather－nodded. He made eye contact briefly with both Byleth and Victor, long enough to acknowledge them but not so much that it came off threatening or uneasy. Most people who spoke to Jeralt only addressed him and him alone. “Of course. Forgive my abrupt summoning, but we learned that your mercenary group was hired in the services of this town. Am I right in assuming this is related to the recent territory disputes in this area?”

“Yes,” Jeralt answered. “As the villagers tell it, two local lords have been squabbling over land, and they’re not above turning croplands into battlefields, or taking towns by force. My men were hired under the concern that the Galatea household wouldn’t respond to a call for aid in time.”

“I see.” The boy frowned, but it was a sad look. “They cannot be faulted for thinking so. Do you have an estimate as to when the fighting might reach this region?”

“The elder received a message yesterday demanding a declaration of loyalty by tonight, in the form of supplying all able-bodied men to the lord in question. My guess is they’ll come for an answer before then.”

One of the soldiers drew closer to the boy and spoke in a low voice. Words were exchanged for a moment, and then he nodded and addressed Jeralt again.

“My priority is the welfare of the villagers, but I have an interest in apprehending certain parties among these men that you intend to face. If you would be so kind as to see to the village’s safety, that would be a great help to us. We need not fight side-by-side or anything of the sort; merely sharing information would be a great help. In return, we would do the same, of course.”

The soldier at his side tensed as if taken aback. “With all due respect, these sellswords are－”

“Captain.” The boy, whose voice was no louder or stricter than before, kept his amiable smile as the soldier instantly fell silent. “I don’t see the harm in increasing our numbers, given our lack of information. Or are you aware of something I am not?”

“No, Your Highness, of course not. Forgive me for speaking out of turn.”

Byleth blinked slowly at them. She recognized the title as a term of respect among… royalty, wasn’t it? Although she had never heard it applied to someone in her presence.

Jeralt was perfectly still in the way that Byleth recognized as meaning he was in deep thought. Finally, he drew a breath. “I can hardly disobey the request of the crown prince, especially since these are your politics we’re dealing with here.” He gave a small nod. “We’re much obliged.”

“I thank you.” The boy－prince－inclined his head, his golden hair bright in the afternoon sun.

“You were polite,” Byleth observed minutes later as they headed back into the village.

“I have my moments,” Jeralt grunted. “But it’s best to avoid landing on the royal brat’s bad side, if we can help it.”

“You know him?”

“No. And that’s why I want to avoid it.”

* * *

_“－coddle you no more! You are just like a child, always needing me to hold your－”_

The sharp voice slaps Byleth awake like the sting of cold water.

Except, as she tries to move, she realizes there really _is_ water, and it’s cold, and everywhere－

Confused and exhausted, she panics. She tries to push herself up but her hands find nothing solid, her eyes are blinded by light and water and she can only hear herself splashing and gasping－

“Hey, easy! I’ve got you!”

A strong hand closes around her arm, another supports her back, and suddenly she’s hauled out of the water and onto solid ground, shivering and coughing. The hands retreat and she tries to reach after them, to grab hold for a sign of familiarity and gasp for her father to stay where he is, but she still can’t see and only water comes out of her mouth as she continues to empty her lungs.

It takes her a long moment to collect herself and regain all of her senses. As she wipes the droplets from her eyes and looks up, she finds it isn’t Jeralt, but a man she’s never seen before staring down at her in a mixture of surprise and concern.

“Hey! A-are you awake?”

* * *

Dimitri once asked if she remembered their first meeting.

When she admitted no, her early memories of him were hazy, she was puzzled by the hurt look on his face. Instead of admitting his disappointment, of course, Dimitri recounted it for her: how her father’s mercenaries had been in Faerghus, taking a lot of jobs in the wake of the instability caused by the Tragedy of Duscur. How his own platoon of soldiers traveled the kingdom at the time, repressing uprisings and addressing the increase in crime.

He told her the story of how one day the two groups crossed paths－Jeralt preparing his men to defend a village under assault from a local land-hoarding noble, Dimitri leading his through the area after stamping out a similar predicament in another territory. Dimitri knew the name of the Bladebreaker, of course－ _Who didn’t?_ he remarked with a nostalgic smile－and insisted they cooperate for the sake of the suffering people.

That much was vaguely familiar to Byleth. She remembered an unnaturally strong curiosity towards him, the cleancut boy leading a group of hardened soldiers, his earth-shattering strength contrasting with his meek demeanor. For a long time her earliest memory of him was in battle… until that recollection in her dreams just now.

As she presses on towards the monastery, soaked to the bone and aching all over, it’s just one more mystery to mull over. More importantly, the villager’s unbelievable words continue to ring in her ears and she still isn’t sure what to make of them.

Five years.

That’s impossible.

* * *

The morning after that battle for the village was the first time she and Dimitri ever spoke to each other.

He had come across her as she sat alone oiling her blade. Content to ignore him as he passed, she didn’t look up until he stopped in front of her.

“I never did get to thank you for your help last night.” When she said nothing, he made a waist-deep bow that looked much too stiff and formal. “So－thank you. Truly.”

Byleth wasn’t sure how to respond. Before her silence could stretch on too long, he straightened up again and added, “I must also apologize for not introducing myself properly before.”

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” she recounted, tone neutral as her attention returned to the sword in her lap. “Prince of Faerghus. Recently appointed commander in the kingdom army.”

“Oh, you’re familiar with Faerghus politics?”

“No. Word travels fast.”

He watched her silently for a moment. She ignored him again, expecting him to move on once he realized she wasn’t a stimulating source of conversation, as most people tended to do.

“May I ask your name, if you don’t mind?”

“Byleth.”

“Pardon my prying, Byleth, but I noticed that you never seem to be very far from Jeralt. Are you highly ranked among these mercenaries?”

Byleth looked at him. “I’m not sure what you’re implying. He’s my father, if that answers your question.”

“Oh! You don’t say! Ah－I’m sorry－it’s just that－please don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t imagine Jeralt the Bladebreaker as the fatherly sort. At least not from what the stories tell.”

She gave a mild, one-shouldered shrug. Men in particular tended to lose interest in her by this point, when she didn’t catch on to whatever it was they wanted, but Dimitri didn’t seem deterred. But then, he also wasn’t staring at her or grinning like an idiot or offering to buy her drinks like they often did.

“Well, having seen your skill firsthand, I can certainly believe you two are related,” he mused. “Was he the one who taught you the blade?”

“I think so.”

That answer appeared to puzzle him. “You think...? Do you mean to say you don’t remember?”

His confusion, in turn, confused her. Was it unusual that she couldn’t recall the earlier years of her life?

Before she could answer, she noticed Jeralt approaching and shifted her attention to him instead. He and the prince exchanged brief nods of acknowledgement before he turned to her. “Plans have changed. We’re meeting by the main gate.”

New jobs came in without warning all the time, so Byleth wasn’t surprised. She just nodded, and once he’d gone she turned back to Dimitri expectantly.

“I won’t hold you any longer, then. Forgive me for disrupting you, Byleth.” Another bow, another polite smile. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

* * *

Like a black-and-white picture being filled in with colorful brushstrokes, more of Byleth’s memories trickle into focus.

She recalls with clarity how Dimitri hired Jeralt’s mercenaries himself after that, asking their help in protecting the furthest, poorest villages while the kingdom reined in its political problems. Not until much later did he admit to her that his hands were somewhat tied at the time－as crown prince his movement outside of Fhirdiad was heavily limited and monitored, and he only had the freedom to address issues that affected the balance of power in the capital directly. He was sent to deal with rebellious nobles as a means of proving his merit as commander－hence his hiring Jeralt to look after the commonfolk, despite knowing he would be criticized and likely reprimanded for it.

As a result, Dimitri and Jeralt were frequently in contact, usually communicating through messengers but occasionally in person as their groups traveled the kingdom.

Byleth remembers being the one to initiate their next conversation. She approached him that time, curious about the unnatural strength she had witnessed when his forces engaged the enemy outside the village walls. He was the one who explained Crests to her.

She remembers how impressed he was by her skill－and looking back now, that was probably why he took to her so quickly. He said little about himself, preferring to talk of things they had in common, but he didn’t shy away when she asked him questions about his background. If he was put off by her behavior like most people were, he didn’t show it; he talked enough for both of them, and frequently apologized for doing so.

On the occasion that their companies traveled in the same direction, she would break away from Jeralt’s and ride beside Dimitri among his soldiers. She wouldn’t have said she enjoyed his company at the time－that wasn’t a word she prescribed to anything other than food back then－but he was interesting, a change from her usual quiet hours spent in travel.

Wincing, Byleth breaks from her thoughts to take a seat on the ground. Her clothes have mostly dried, but the cold has seeped into her already stiff joints to make moving that much more uncomfortable. As still and quiet as the forest is around her, she feels confident－if impatient－in taking a short break.

If there are any Imperial soldiers remaining at the monastery, she can’t afford to go stumbling in, clumsy and drowsy.

That thought renews the heavy feeling of dread in her chest and sparks a hundred more questions, a thousand more concerns.

Edelgard won. What did that mean for everyone else?

She realizes she’s gripping the hilt of the Sword of the Creator hard enough to make her palm sting. Forcing herself to relax, Byleth leans against the tree behind her and closes her eyes. She’ll find answers soon enough. For now, she needs to save some strength and make sure she lives long enough to do so.

* * *

It wasn’t long after their acquaintanceship began that Dimitri first asked to spar with her.

Rather, in his polite modesty, he had only asked to observe the next time she trained with one of her companions. Byleth was quick to take the logical route and suggest they do so together, likewise desiring to observe his ability firsthand.

She wasn’t disappointed. He had skill worthy of his position as commander, but his control over his strength was even less refined than it would later be at the academy. Facing him was different, easier in some ways but more difficult in others, and Byleth was satisfied with trading experience for experience.

A couple times she trained him more directly, particularly when it came to the sword. In return, he would tell her about the kingdom as they sat and rested afterwards, something he seemed even happier to do when he realized how little she knew about Faerghus other than the landscape. He described his home city and explained its ties to something called the Church of Seiros. He told her about the school he planned to attend in a couple years’ time.

He was quick to catch on to Byleth’s inability to say much about her own life－although he might have seen it as reluctance at the time, considering how little he pressed after that－but even when he stopped asking her questions, he would always leave her room to talk. Instead of prodding her past, he would ask about her day, or her future. She had little to say on either of those topics, as well, but he always seemed happy with whatever short answers she gave.

She’d thought him strange at the time, particularly since he still didn’t seem to want anything from her. It was as though being around her was a reward enough in itself to him, a concept she wouldn’t understand for a while yet.

Within a couple months of having met Prince Dimitri, Byleth felt confident in her analysis of his fighting style and, to a lesser extent, personality. Even if she didn’t understand him, he became predictable in his mannerisms and word choices. She formed a mold around what she expected of his behavior and, for a while, he filled that expectation exactly.

And then he shattered it.

It was their first battle together in a while, a last-minute scramble on behalf of Jeralt’s company to answer the distressed messenger of a nearby town that was attacked in the middle of the night. By the time they arrived, Dimitri’s battalion was already on the scene and engaged with the bandit group. The heavy rain made the battlefield that much messier.

Byleth slipped into the chaos like a shadow. Striking down any fighter who wasn’t a familiar face or garbed in Faerghus blue, she was driven by the simple instinct to _find Dimitri._ She wasn’t fearful or even worried at the time. It just felt like the natural thing to do.

She did find him－as well as a bandit screaming as Dimitri slammed his head into the mud, again and again and again.

For the first time that she could recall, Byleth was stunned still. She could only watch as the man’s face became bloodier and more disfigured each time he was hauled up again by his hair; she could only listen to his garbled cries becoming weaker.

She could only wonder if that was really Dimitri, wide-eyed and grinning as the man’s blood splattered his pale face and hair.

When she finally recovered, she strode forward and caught Dimitri’s elbow as it drew back for another blow. For an instant that murderous gaze turned on her and she felt him tense beneath her grip, more than capable of tearing himself free if he wanted to－only to freeze as he recognized her.

“That’s enough.” Her voice was calm, but firm.

That fire in his eyes went out immediately, as though snuffed by the falling rain. His fingers went limp and the battered corpse fell to the ground. He stared down at it in silence, his expression softened but unreadable.

As she watched him, Byleth noticed a glint of steel behind him.

Again she acted without thinking: she yanked him towards her and he stumbled over the dead man, causing her to twist as she nearly fell with him. Her sword hand was too slow. She could only tighten her grip on his arm as she looked up at the bandit bearing down on them and the axe aimed for her head.

Silence fell as abruptly as though she’d clamped her hands over her ears－except it was a deeper silence than that, the sounds of battle and thunder completely gone rather than muffled. The suddenness of it was almost deafening in comparison, and for a moment she could only think that she’d been killed.

Then a voice both foreign and familiar spoke, everywhere and nowhere at once. She couldn’t tell if it was within or outside her head.

_**Honestly! What are you accomplishing with that little stunt?! It’s like you’re trying to get me killed, you fool!** _

* * *

It’s nearly sundown when the spires of Garreg Mach come into view.

When Byleth finally emerges from the forest to see the monastery proper, warm relief washes over her at the sight of it still standing. Parts of the walls lie in shambles, but the bigger buildings still seem to be intact.

It takes her a moment to realize how unusual the feeling is. She’s never really thought of anywhere as _home_ before, but there’s no denying that the fading buzz in her limbs is a fear she didn’t realize she was harboring. Would she care that much if she wasn’t tied to this place emotionally?

But with that concern out of the way, the biggest one pushes to the forefront of her mind: the place survived the onslaught, but what of the people inside?

She hurries along the path leading up to the broken gates, eyes and ears on high alert for the first sign of danger.

* * *

“What’s that?”

Dimitri stopped as she did, following her gaze to the tall building in question.

“That’s the cathedral. It’s where followers of the Church of Seiros gather.”

“It looks different from the churches I’ve seen in the villages.” This looked like it could fit a dozen of those modest chapels inside it. It was also much prettier, made from stone rather than wood and boasting colorful glass windows.

It seemed Sothis was likewise intrigued, since she piped up, _**Well? Aren’t you curious to see the inside?**_

Despite being phrased as a question, Byleth could tell the girl was just short of demanding that she enter. It had been partly at Sothis’ urging, after all, that she’d traveled nearly half a day to Fhirdiad in the first place.

Upon the termination of Jeralt’s contract with the prince months ago, Byleth hadn’t really entertained the possibility of seeing Dimitri again. His invitation to seek him out if she was ever in the capital, while thoughtful, had seemed impractical and unlikely. By chance, a recent job had led Jeralt out of Alliance territory and back into the northern parts of Faerghus; by Sothis’ bored insistence did Byleth give in to her own curiosity, as well, and now he was showing her around the city with the same cheerful enthusiasm he’d had upon seeing her again.

“Is it open?” Byleth asked him with a tilt of her head.

“It is. Come, this way.” He opened one of the large doors and held it open for her, and then nodded behind her. “You, as well, Dedue. Come on.”

Byleth glanced behind her to see the taller boy trail silently after them. The knight who’d been assigned to accompany Dimitri glanced at the prince, who shook his head. “We won’t be long. Remain here, please.”

The inside was even more impressive, it turned out. The glass windows were much more vibrant with the sun behind them, and the ceiling was the tallest Byleth had ever seen. There were a few people around, all wearing what looked like uniforms of some sort, but most of the wooden benches were empty. There was a heavy but peaceful silence in the place that put her at ease despite the unfamiliarity of it all.

“There are no services today,” Dimitri explained, in a lower voice than he’d used outside, “but believers are free to visit most of the time.”

Byleth made a thoughtful sound as they moved further in. “Are you a believer?”

He didn’t look at her as he smiled. “The kingdom itself is considered loyal to the Church. Like most, I attend the services and observe the holidays.”

The monks acknowledged Dimitri with bows and smiles, which turned to curiosity when they saw Byleth. Like many of the people outside, their faces went dark or turned away entirely as soon as they caught sight of Dedue.

Judging by Dimitri’s expression, he also noticed. He led their group towards a corner, the furthest they could get from the people while still allowing Byleth to study the extravagant decor.

“I admit,” said Dimitri, “I’m still shocked you’d never heard of the Church before recently.”

“Is it that big?”

For some reason that seemed to amuse him, but there was nothing judgmental in his tone. “It’s the official religion of Fodlan, and goes back to the very roots of when the Empire was founded.” He glanced at Dedue. “Of course, it isn’t the only religion on the continent. To my understanding, the people of Duscur have multiple gods that they worship. Isn’t that so, Dedue?”

The other boy nodded and simply replied, “Yes, Your Highness.”

Even from here, Byleth could see the strain behind Dimitri’s smile. He’d been doing what he could to involve Dedue in their conversations, but Dedue seemed either content to remain as silent as possible or uncomfortable with getting involved. Byleth had difficulty imagining that anyone would be intimidated by Dimitri－not in his current mood, at least, when he was clearly doing his best to be friendly－so she started to wonder if she was the one whom Dedue was wary of.

Mostly for Dimitri’s sake, she decided to try her hand at including him.

“Were the churches in Duscur like this one?”

Dedue looked surprised that she’d spoken to him. “No.” He hesitated, then explained, “We did not have organized services in the sense that the Church of Seiros does, so there was no need for buildings such as these. We only gathered for special events, such as festivals and holidays. Those were held near shrines, beneath the open sky.”

He’d just said more in those few seconds than he had all day. Byleth tried to imagine what he described.

“That sounds very different from… this,” she mused, glancing around the immaculately clean and polished room. “I don’t remember my father teaching me about any religions. But if I had to choose, yours sounds like the one I would like more.”

Again, Dedue appeared stunned. Beside him, Dimitri seemed to be smothering a smile as he followed their conversation, chin perched on his fist.

As they were leaving minutes later, a flash of color caught Byleth’s eye and she slowed to a stop. On the far wall was a painting she hadn’t noticed on the way in: it was enormous, taller than she was, and depicted a slender woman in white with eyes closed and hands folded as if in deep meditation. Her flowing green hair occupied much of the space within the frame, with glimpses of mountains against a golden sky behind her.

She was lovely, Byleth thought, and clearly an important figure if the placement and size of the portrait were any indication.

“Byleth?”

She nodded at the painting as Dimitri joined her. “Who is that?”

“That’s the Goddess. Or that artist’s depiction of her, anyway. It’s been said that few images of her likeness have been made, for even fewer artists have felt capable of capturing her holiness. I imagine there’s a similar reason for why her name is so rarely spoken.”

Byleth would have let him stop there, but she felt a sharp spike of curiosity in the back of her mind.

**_Oh? So even a goddess has a common name?_ **

“What is her name?” Byleth asked him.

“Sothis.”

He missed the way she stiffened in surprise.

* * *

Even in the middle of the night, the monastery was never as quiet as it is now.

Unease pools in Byleth’s stomach as she makes her way through the grounds and the unnaturally heavy silence that hangs over them. The further in she gets, the more preserved it appears, absent of much of the destruction that marks the outer areas. If not for the weeds littering the once pristine lawns, the occasional broken window, and the complete absence of people, she would say everything looks much as the same as it was only a few days ago.

No, not days. Years.

The dormitories are as quiet as the graveyard. The dining hall and classrooms are deserted. The market is trashed, its stalls packed up in a hurry or looted or both.

It all feels so unnaturally, unnervingly wrong.

* * *

“Do you think you could write?” Dimitri had asked her one evening.

It was Byleth’s last day in Fhirdiad. As far as she knew, it was also her last in Faerghus for a while. Her father had business down south and it was impossible to predict when they might journey this way again.

“Write?”

“If it’s not too much to ask,” he added quickly, “I would like to hear from you.”

“I’ve never written a letter before. I’m not sure it would be very interesting.”

He smiled at that. “On the contrary, I find your life more interesting than you may think.”

Sothis gave a skeptical chuckle. _**Your “life,” is it?**_

Unsure what she meant, Byleth ignored her. “I could try.” She had no real idea of how mail worked over such long distances, but Dimitri seemed to think it possible. She could always ask her father, besides.

Dimitri beamed at that. “That means a lot to me, truly.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew something and held it out to her. “You’ll want this, then. Seal your letters with it, and that should make sure they get to me.”

Byleth took it. It was a wax seal, gold by the look and weight of it, with the impression of an intricate design.

“It’s the coat of arms of the royal family,” he explained.

She blinked at him. “Isn’t this important?”

“Yes, but so is this.” His smile softened. “I’m lending it to you. I’ll take it back when we meet again.”

Sothis laughed again. **_How very eloquent! He’s quite the charmer, and yet you don’t even realize it._**

Byleth slipped the seal into her own pocket with a nod. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you. I imagine you’ll be traveling too quickly for me to get a reply to you?”

She considered that. Her father wrote letters as often as she did, but she’d noticed other members of their group exchanging them at courier posts in certain towns, often sending part of their earnings back to their families. “Maybe. But we tend to resupply in the same towns when possible. I might not get them right away, but you might be able to send me something there.”

“Do you think so? Then, please, by all means－just let me know where you end up, and I’ll be sure to correspond.”

Byleth wasn’t sure why he seemed so excited by the idea.

But she couldn’t deny that she now felt less disappointed by the news of their departure.

* * *

Byleth pauses at the foot of the dormitory staircase, staring up into the darkness at the top for a moment. Then she climbs.

She’s not expecting to find anyone there, not really, but she’s disappointed all the same when her suspicion is confirmed. The rooms are nearly bare, long since stripped of anything remotely valuable. Only furniture and scattered books remain for the most part.

She steps into Dimitri’s room and it hits the hardest.

She was _just here._ Here, with him, sharing the bed that’s now bare and covered in dust. None of his personal touches remain. It’s just another empty space now.

What little denial she’s still holding on to shatters.

* * *

**  
_Exactly how long are you going to sit here like this?_   
**

Byleth’s lips twitched in mild annoyance. This was the third time in the last half hour that Sothis had interrupted her thoughts.

“Until I think of something.”

The girl gave a melodramatic sigh, as if explaining something to a stubborn child. **_Talk about your recent battles. The sights you’ve seen. Ask him how he’s faring at that academy of his. It should be obvious even to you by now that he enjoys hearing anything from you._**

Byleth tapped her dry quill against the paper to an impatient rhythm. “It’s always the same thing from me. He’s probably bored with it by now.”

**_Ha!_ **

Despite the urge to question that condescending laugh, Byleth said nothing, well aware that Sothis wouldn’t answer. For all the likewise impatient commentary the girl had to offer when it came to Dimitri, she never explained herself.

There was a brief knock at the door and then her father entered, doing a double-take in her direction. “Writing again?”

“It’s been a few weeks,” Byleth replied. “But I can’t really think of anything to say.”

Jeralt gave a thoughtful grunt as he shrugged out of his coat. “What about our last few battles? Guys like talking about that kind of stuff.”

Smugness practically radiated from Sothis’ corner of her mind.

“Maybe,” said Byleth doubtfully. After a moment more, she turned in her seat. “Did you ever write letters to your friends?”

Jeralt seemed to hesitate in removing his sword belt, but then continued and set it aside. “Occasionally. A long time ago.” He sat on the closest bed, leaning over to perch his arms on his knees. “I would write to your mother sometimes, when I was… abroad.”

Even Sothis seemed to settle down at that. It wasn’t like him to bring up Byleth’s mother, especially without prompting.

“What did you write about?”

He waved a hand with a weary-looking smile. “Oh, nothing she really cared about, I’m sure. But she kept every letter. Anytime I was gonna be away for more than a week, she’d always remind me to write to her. I think she just liked to know I was doing alright. And that I was thinking of her.”

When he noticed Byleth’s stare, that warm look faded. “What?”

“That’s the most you’ve ever said about her.”

“Ah… I guess so.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe… it’s about time I told you more about her. Especially now that you’re… making friends and all.”

Byleth tilted her head. She wasn’t sure what that had to do with it. “Do you think me and Dimitri are like－?”

“No,” he said gruffly, immediately, and looked away with something of a grimace. “Don’t get me wrong,” he added after a short pause, “I’m glad you’re taking to people now. Since meeting him, you’ve… changed.”

“I have?”

Jeralt nodded. “I’ve never seen you take a real interest in anything besides eating and fighting. Never thought I’d see you stressing over something as mundane as what to put in a letter.” He broke into a fond smile. “I’m happy for you.”

He seemed sincere, but Byleth detected an unspoken _but_ at the end of those words. If she thought Sothis was tight-lipped on the matter, Jeralt was like talking to a stone wall. He’d never directly stated what he thought of Dimitri, or even given the impression that he approved or disapproved of their correspondence.

Since he seemed to be in a talkative mood tonight, Byleth decided to push. “You don’t trust him?”

Jeralt straightened up with another sigh, sounding tired this time. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he replied slowly. “It’s just that guys like him don’t typically associate with people like us. When they do, there’s… well, there’s a short list of reasons why.”

Byleth considered that. “What do you think his reason is?”

He glanced at her for all of half a second before looking away again. “I’m just saying don’t let your guard down. I know you’re no pushover, but you don’t have much experience with people. Even when you do, it’s not always easy to tell what someone else is planning.”

Before she could try to pick that apart, there was another knock at the door. She got up to answer it and found Victor, who looked past her. “Boss. Think you better come take a look at this.”

A minute later they strode out of the inn, armed and alert as Victor led them across the small yard. A handful of their companions were gathered there, along with three others who were dressed much too formally to fit in.

“And what d’you kids want at this－” Jeralt stopped short as his voice did the same. Byleth, half a step behind, tensed warily as she drew even with him, only to likewise freeze in surprise.

Jeralt recovered first. “Your Highness?”

“ _Jeralt?_ ”

“Dimitri?”

“Byleth!” Dimitri’s startled expression quickly eased into a bright smile. He looked… different, she immediately noticed. Taller, his frame more filled out. “What－”

“Claude, Edelgard,” piped up the young man on his left, indicating himself and the girl with them with a sweeping gesture. “There! That was easy.”

“ _Claude,_ you can’t just－”

Dimitri gave a swift bow, glancing between Jeralt and Byleth both as his tone turned serious. “Please, forgive our intrusion. I’m afraid the situation is dire.”

* * *

The cathedral is in shambles. The altar has been reduced to a depressing pile of rubble and the room is the emptiest Byleth has ever seen it. Despite the warm evening air, a different sort of chill settles on her skin.

There’s nowhere left to look. The disappointment hits her like a physical blow and she winces. She’s not sure what－who－she expected to find here after this much time, but having her hope ripped away from her hurts all the same.

She starts to head back the way she came, but stops mid-turn as she catches a new, stronger scent among the dust and aging wood.

Blood.

She hesitates, thinking she imagined it－but as if on cue, a breeze flows in from the western entrance, bringing with it the unmistakable, pungent stench of death.

Hand on her hilt, she makes her way as quietly as she can across the marble floor. When she steps outside and turns the corner, she goes still.

The stone walkway is covered in corpses. Each one wears armor in the color of the Empire－and each one has been violently obliterated. Faces caved in, heads missing, chests torn open. All clearly slain－massacred－by something with inhuman strength－

Byleth looks away, but the smell is overpowering now, the soles of her boots already sticky with the blood painting the stones. Every instinct she has screams at her to retreat, to be anywhere but here, but she takes a deep breath and forces her eyes over the grisly scene a second time. She notices the way the bodies have fallen, the way they lie thickest at the bridge that leads to the Goddess Tower.

Stepping over the carnage, she makes her way to the Tower entrance. The door has been smashed from the hinges, a mess of splinters further in.

She remembers the last time she was here－a carefree night of dancing and optimistic promises, her friends’ laughter and Sothis teasing her, Dimitri’s warm hands and kisses and some stolen moments of intimacy.

Clutching tight to that memory and one last spark of hope, she goes inside.

* * *

The _clack_ of wooden weapons was a constant, steady rhythm that Byleth followed like music, her body moving on instinct and reflex despite the tired flush in her skin and the sweat stains on her uniform.

Dimitri looked no better, but he smiled every time he managed to block one of her blows and even when she blocked his. They were both nearing their limits, but the more tired and desperate their moves became, the more determined each of them was to end this session with a properly earned victory.

He dodged her high swing with a quick pivot, throwing up an arm to catch the kick she tried to sneak at his side. Byleth fell backwards to avoid his counterattack and twisted to catch herself on one hand and spin away—she cleared his first downward jab, the second, and then leapt back to her feet as he rushed her, likely hoping to catch her before her balance was completely recovered.

It might have worked, had she not known he was right-handed. Instead she anticipated the way he threw his weight forward and, raising her sword to catch his upward swing, let the force of his blow push her further away. In the second it took him to try and close the distance between them again, she was ready and deflected his hasty blow to the side, his own strength working against him as his momentum took him a step too far.

Byleth tapped the flat side of her sword against his exposed side—and, for playful good measure, gave his hip a shove to knock him over.

Dimitri laughed as he came up on his knees, chest heaving. “One of these days,” he panted, “I will best you yet.”

Equally breathless, Byleth offered him a hand and helped him back up. “You’re closer than before. But you’re still too eager, and that can make you predictable. Try to slow down and read your opponent more.”

They were the only two at the training grounds this early, likely because it was a holiday, as well as the recent heat wave that had the air sweltering shortly after the sun came up. Despite his self-confessed dislike of hot weather, Dimitri had jumped at the chance to spar with her as he always did.

They were slow to put away their weapons as they chatted, trading questions and observations and tips like they usually did. As ever, Byleth was blunt with her critique and her praise and Dimitri listened eagerly to both.

“You’ve adapted to countering my strength, as well,” he noted. “I notice you intercept my attacks as much as you dodge them now.” He wiped the sweat from his face with the collar of his shirt, a movement that exposed a good bit of his—unsurprisingly—toned stomach. Byleth’s eyes were drawn to it immediately and she looked away again just as quickly, more aware than she had once been of how rude that could come off.

Besides, his thin shirt was clinging to him tightly enough for her to admire his physique more subtly than that.

“Only because I’m familiar with your fighting style,” she replied. “It would be a lot riskier to try that against a stranger as strong as you.”

“I suppose that’s one more reason to be grateful we aren’t strangers, then.” He caught her eye as he smiled and her stomach felt funny again. That was happening a lot lately, usually when she caught him looking at her. She wasn’t sure why; eye contact had never made her uneasy before now. “May I?” he asked, indicating her training sword, and she handed it over so he could place it on the weapons rack.

Her eyes trailed down his back as he turned away—his defined shoulders, the lines of muscle hugging his spine and waist—and her body felt funny in a different way. She wasn’t sure about that, either, but it wasn’t the first time she’d felt that way around him.

“I think this may be helping me adapt to the heat, as well,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t feel quite as miserable as yesterday.”

“You should see your face before you say that. You’re so red I was afraid you might pass out.” She grinned as she said it and Dimitri mirrored the expression like it was contagious. He once said he liked her smile. Since then she’d noticed that he always smiled when she did.

“It works out, doesn’t it? You aren’t fond of the cold, nor I the heat. We balance one another’s weaknesses.”

It was a nonsensical little joke but Byleth chuckled all the same. He had a way of making her laugh differently than anyone else did. Being around him in general had a tendency to put her in a good mood, and she’d found herself to have a more generous sense of humor recently. Maybe her father was right, and she was just settling into a new lifestyle that was good for her.

“If you’d like to spend the day cooling off,” she suggested as she retrieved her canteen from the shade where she’d left it, “we can have a rematch after the sun goes down.” She took a long swig of the lukewarm water and offered it to him, which he took with a nod and word of thanks. That little bit of formality brought a smaller, fonder smile to her face.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Do you think the others will join if we ask?” she wondered as she watched him drink.

He gave a short, satisfied sigh as he finished and passed the canteen back. “Felix would, most definitely. Especially if you ask. Dedue wouldn’t decline, but considering the holiday…”

Her eyes fell to his mouth as he talked, drawn to the wet sheen of his lips. The intense sunshine highlighted the water on the corners of his mouth. She suddenly felt like she’d been the one knocked flat during their fight.

“—like me to?”

Byleth blinked, returning her gaze to his as she realized what he’d said. “Oh. Um—yes. Please invite them, if you want. I’ll ask Felix.”

He gave her a puzzled, concerned frown. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, tempted to drop her train of thought but finding it difficult with him looking at her like that. “Can I ask you something… personal, I think?” She took another sip to stall for words. “You can tell me if it’s not a proper thing to ask, or something.”

He accepted the flask again, but held it in both hands as he regarded her with a serious expression. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

That made her feel better. She had picked up on a lot of social cues and standards in her time at the academy, and even before then from Dimitri himself, but she could tell she still caught people off-guard with her remarks sometimes. Asking him, especially, she felt more confident. He was always glad to answer her questions, particularly regarding things she knew little about. He was forward and informative and trustworthy.

“Have you ever been attracted to someone?”

Dimitri went very still at that, staring at her like she’d caught him committing a crime.

Byleth quickly shook her head. “Forget it, I just—”

“I have,” he blurted. “I am. I mean—” He winced and became immensely interested in the wall to his left. “Yes… a couple times, I suppose.”

“What’s it like?”

He turned back to her. “Like?” he echoed.

“Yes. How do you… feel when it happens? How do you know it’s attraction?” She had certainly heard of people being attracted to one another, but it had never been explained in such a way that she could understand what it would be like. Now she had her suspicions, but it was better to ask.

“Well…” Fiddling with the canteen, he kept his gaze down. “I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone. But… if it’s purely physical attraction, I find that I… enjoy looking at her. Because I find her pleasing to the eye, I suppose.” He raised his head but now his eyes moved to the opposite wall, the sky, anywhere but Byleth. “Not—Not in the indecent sense, but just… in general.”

Byleth turned that over for a long moment. “What if it isn’t just physical attraction?”

He stopped rotating the canteen between his hands. “Then… that’s different,” he said slowly. “If I find her personality charming, then… I want to spend time with her. I would like to know her better. As for how it feels…” He frowned again, thoughtfully this time. “When I’m around her, I’m happy, but also quite nervous. I sometimes feel… well, not _ill_ , that’s not— It’s as though I don’t feel quite right around her. Something inside me feels light and heavy all at once. But it’s a good feeling.”

He suddenly shook his head with a self-conscious chuckle. “I’m sorry, that sounds terrible. I am no poet when it comes to such things.”

“No, it’s fine. That’s—a good answer.” She didn’t miss the way he seemed to study her.

“Do you… feel that way around someone, then?” When Byleth hesitated, Dimitri shook his head a second time. “No, don’t answer that—it’s none of my business. Forgive my rudeness.”

“It’s fine. I asked you, so it’s a fair question. What you described is… definitely familiar. In my case, I feel… jittery around him, I guess? But only sometimes. Most of the time I’m comfortable around him, but… sometimes he’s… To use your words, he’s more pleasing to the eye than usual.”

An exhale of a laugh escaped him as he smiled, and sure enough that jittery feeling seized her again. Byleth drew a breath and held it.

Perhaps this wasn’t proper, but what was _proper_ , anyway? Dimitri had always liked her just fine despite the canyon-sized difference in their backgrounds. If she was a little rough around the edges in this regard, would he think any less of her than if she’d played shy word games and dragged this out in secret like some of their peers seemed content to do?

She didn’t think so. She considered him her closest friend and he hadn’t earned that place for nothing.

“It’s you,” she said simply.

Dimitri stared at her, part of that smile frozen in place. She held the look evenly.

“You’re very attractive when you’re fighting. It’s distracting. But it’s not your fault, so don’t apologize,” she added quickly. “I’m sorry if this is a weird thing to say. But we’ve always been honest with each other, and I don’t like feeling as though I’m hiding it from you. So…” She shrugged awkwardly. “You don’t have to say anything. You can forget I ever said this if you want—”

“No.” Despite the speed of his objection, it was gentle. His smile was gone but there was nothing negative in his expression—it was a searching look, and confident compared to how he’d been avoiding eye contact before. “I don’t want to forget it, Byleth.”

It was her turn to stare.

_**Ugh,** _ **please _don’t make me spell it out for you. He’s given you plenty of hints as it is!_**

Byleth twitched in surprise at the voice.

_How long have you been watching us?_ she demanded. Before Sothis could answer, Dimitri’s posture seemed to sag slightly.

“Of course, if you meant nothing by it, I understand,” he said quickly. “But I… would prefer to be honest with you, as well.”

For a few beats Byleth was utterly lost. Then she realized he mistook her wince as being directed at him—but what did he mean by...

Oh.

Sothis heaved a dramatic sigh that Byleth ignored. “No, it’s—that wasn’t at you,” she assured him. “I was… surprised.” That much was honest.

Dimitri paused, searching her face again. Neither of them said anything—equally unsure, perhaps, of what this mutual confession meant.

_**Just ask him if he’s ever kissed anyone before.** _

_What?_

_**Ha! Don’t play innocent. Do you think your thoughts weren’t loud and clear before?** _

Byleth bit the inside of her cheek, irritated at the blatant invasion of privacy. Then again, she probably should have known better.

And Sothis aside, she _was_ curious. Attraction and physical intimacy usually went hand-in-hand in many of the conversations she’d heard.

“Can I ask you something else personal?”

Dimitri nodded. “You may.”

Again, she couldn’t think of any way to ask other than directly. “Do you know what it’s like to kiss someone?”

The heat of exertion had finally begun fading from his face, but at the question his flush came rushing back up his neck. He cleared his throat. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.” His blush deepened as he swiftly rectified, “I don’t mean to imply that I’m disappointed—I’m just—sorry that I can’t describe it to you.”

Her stomach felt light as air. The words left her mouth before she could rethink them, calm and matter-of-fact. “We could find out.”

Byleth wouldn’t have been surprised if he refused, either too embarrassed or too proper to entertain her strange whims—but she was, perhaps, more surprised that he didn’t.

It was brief. Simple. Not what she expected, but not unpleasant, either. When she pulled back she found Dimitri staring at her intently, studiously, his eyebrows knit slightly in puzzlement but his expression fixed as though he were seeing her for the first time.

His mouth—soft, warm, tasteless—opened slightly, but no words followed.

The touch of his hand on her cheek nearly startled her. She couldn’t recall ever being touched so gently; she would never have expected him capable of it, and yet there was nothing but careful tenderness in the way he cupped her jaw in his palm and tilted her head up a little more.

This time he kissed her.

For a moment she thought it would be the same as the first—but Dimitri lingered, and then his mouth moved against hers and she inhaled sharply at the sheer sensation of it, the sensitivity of her lips catching her off guard. She mimicked him until the kiss was something deeper than simple curiosity, fueled instead by that warm, fluttering feeling that insisted she couldn’t get enough of his kiss, his touch, his warmth, _him._

* * *

The trail of corpses continues into the Tower. Byleth has to step over them as she ascends the staircase, unable to keep her gaze from wandering back to their mangled shapes now and again.

These soldiers appear to have died slightly cleaner deaths－stabbed or torn open by a large weapon, some with broken necks, but nothing like the gore outside. It’s as if their quarry started favoring efficiency over brutality at this point, but only slightly.

At the top of the stairs, the corpses finally end. She leans down and touches her fingertips to one man’s face and finds his skin lukewarm. He hasn’t been dead long.

Her footsteps are unnervingly loud as she proceeds, still clutching her sword in its sheath. A patch of dying sunlight illuminates the center of the area up ahead, a strangely warm sight amid the chilling atmosphere. As if beckoned, Byleth approaches, and finally steps into the light as her gaze sweeps quickly over the edges of the room.

It’s empty.

She’s alone.

She lets out the breath she’s holding, her fingers loosening.

“Now what?” she mutters. Her stomach in troubled knots, she turns to head back the way she came.

She’s at the top of the staircase when the hair on the back of her neck stands straight up and an itch forms between her shoulder blades.

She’s being watched.

Byleth barely has time to register that when she hears the air behind her whistle. Luckily, her body started moving an instant before that.

Steel strikes stone above her head as she falls into a crouch, blinking through a shower of sparks. Her eyes are still readjusting to the darkness and all she can make out is a shadow－a large one－as it follows up with a solid kick to her chest.

It’s like being kicked by a horse. Byleth’s halfway down the staircase before she realizes it, gasping for air as her vision spins and her body takes a beating against what feels like every single step. She hits the landing in a hard heap atop the dead soldiers there. Her head is light with pain and dizziness but she forces herself up onto her unsteady legs, vaguely wondering if anything’s broken, and looks up just in time to see the silhouette of a man barreling down the stairs after her.

She leaps aside just in time: his lance pierces a corpse as he lands, but he tears it free before she can try to take advantage of the opening and rounds on her once more. Before she can draw her sword he’s swinging at her again, as fast as he is strong, and she’s forced backwards to continue narrowly dodging his blows.

She waits for a jab－it comes and she sidesteps it, flattening herself against the wall until the spearhead passes and then she’s yanking her sword free for a blow at his side－

Except she only makes it halfway into the motion when the man abruptly stops mid-thrust and drives his elbow towards her head. Again she ducks, and she swears she hears the stone wall _crack_ when he strikes it. She tries to throw herself to the side, but a beat too slow: his large hand closes over her face and she can already feel his fingers digging into her skull to crush it.

She tears her dagger from her belt and drags it across the inside of his bicep, eliciting a snarl as his grip loosens and bringing both legs up to kick hard against his chest. Her heels strike armor but the force is enough to knock him away from her regardless, and she’s drawn the Sword of the Creator before she’s even landed on her feet.

The sword fills the room with a red glow as their weapons clash in a deadlock, and for the first time she sees his face. It’s no one she recognizes, but his one eye winces against the light and Byleth takes her chance: she frees one hand to slam a Wind spell point-blank into his chest, which has the desired effect of throwing him across the room and away from her. He hits the wall, and then the floor in a slump, growling in pain.

She approaches slowly, her sword still raised. She would prefer to question him, but if he attacks her again, she may have no choice but to kill him.

But he doesn’t attack. He stays where he is, caught in the last rays of sunlight streaming through the shattered doorway. He doesn’t bear Imperial colors.

She’s only a few steps away when he raises his head, glaring at her through uneven bangs.

“Finish it,” he rasps. The fury in his voice is deep and visceral, and yet there’s a note of resignation in it, as well. Byleth doesn’t doubt that he still has some fight left in him after that display just now, so his sudden air of defeat catches her off guard.

Still wary, she takes one last step to stand inside the pool of light with him.

She doesn’t know that voice－it’s too deep, too rough. She doesn’t know the sharp angles of that blood-splattered face, or the head of messy blond hair, or that enormous frame.

But she does know that gaze.

She knows that shade of blue, even if one eye is missing. She knows that stunned, fearful look of realization, because it’s the same one he wore when he nearly crushed her throat just the other night.

“You…” he croaks, but she suddenly feels too numb to speak. The sound of her sword clattering on the stones goes unnoticed. She can only stare at him, shock and disbelief tightening her throat.

_What happened to you?_

The sight of his face darkening snaps her from her stupor. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, tearing his gaze away. “I’ve killed so many… all for you. They were all for you. What more do you want?”

Byleth falls to her knees, putting the two of them eye-to-eye. It’s difficult, but she can see the similarities now. He’s older－different－but it’s him.

It’s unmistakably him.

When she doesn’t answer, he turns back slowly, almost reluctantly, and the emotions that play across his face are too subtle to decipher. “If it’s me you want… just a little longer. I must－kill _her_ －” He almost chokes on the word, jaw and fists clenched. “Soon. For their sake. Then… you and I…” He sighs sharply, as heavily as a dying man taking his last breath. Just like that, the anger permeating his tone is gone. “Please. Just a little longer.”

Of all the things Byleth could say, nothing seems right. As thick as her throat suddenly is, she’s not sure she could get the words out, anyway. Instead, slowly, as though he’s a wild animal she might startle, she extends her hand towards him.

His eye narrows at it, but he only huffs quietly and looks away. “So… this is how you choose to torment me.” Something like a snicker rolls in his throat, rough and clipped like stones falling. “How fitting.”

When her fingers graze his cheek, they both tense in surprise－Byleth at how deathly cold his skin feels, and he as though he didn’t expect her hand to be solid.

He stares at her, and this time there’s no fear in it.

Then his expression crumples, alarmingly fast, into a hard look of disdain. “You’re dead.” His voice is a low hiss that screams danger, but Byleth doesn’t heed the warning. She cups his face in her palm and shakes her head gently, holding his shadowed gaze.

“No,” she says softly, steadily. “I’m alive.” She watches the realization dawn on him, his eye roaming her face rapidly, almost desperately, hunting for a hint of deception.

“I’m here, Dimitri.”


	6. Chapter 6

For a long, still, silent moment, Byleth thinks she might wake up—that she’ll leave this terrible dream behind and find herself back in her room with Dimitri beside her, that they’ll both laugh at the morbid absurdity of her imagination and go on with their day like they once did.

But the bruises from their skirmish still ache and his ice cold skin beneath her fingers is too real. She knows without a doubt that she’s awake.

“Byleth.”

Her name sounds odd in his voice, as though he’s sounding it out for the first time. His eye hasn’t stopped searching her face, hasn’t even blinked.

“You’re alive,” he echoes, but the words are hesitant with doubt.

Byleth slides closer, kneeling between his legs to hold his face in her hands. “I am. I promise.” She tries to smile but she can tell it’s weak. Her voice cracks. “I’ve never lied to you before, have I?”

Suddenly Dimitri’s eye goes still, locking onto hers with unexpected intensity. His gloved hands slowly rise and settle on her arms, their grip loose but their weight heavy.

“You’ve… never lied,” he repeats quietly. It doesn’t sound like an agreement. “Never…”

Pain locks up her arms as his fingers tighten around her wrists like a vice. He pries her hands from his face and holds them away from him, but he doesn’t let go when she tries to pull free. “Dimitri—”

“You’ve never _lied?_ ” He hangs his head with a stuttering hiss that Byleth realizes is laughter. The stilted, broken sound stops as abruptly as it started. “Then why.” The whisper is barely audible, but it’s as hard and sharp as a knife’s edge. “Why didn’t you keep your promise that day? Why didn’t you stay near me?”

Byleth’s stomach drops. Dimitri’s voice shakes as it rises in volume, and when he looks at her his expression is wracked with more grief and pain than she’s ever seen in it.

_“Why did you choose her over me?”_ The cry echoing up the Tower’s spiral feels like it’s vibrating in her very bones.

Her wrists creak in his grip as her hands go numb. It’s quite possible he’ll break them if he squeezes any harder.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t.” The denial is flimsy even in her own ears. Her excuses－that he was far enough back at the time that she thought he was safe, that she never intended to give her life for Rhea, that she couldn’t just abandon her－all die on her tongue because that’s all they are, excuses.

When she offers no other answer, Dimitri releases her with a pained scowl. “It doesn’t matter now.” He climbs to his feet and brushes past her to retrieve his lance, and then pauses with his back to her. When he turns to her again, it’s only halfway, and he shoots her a dark glance. “Where have you been, then?”

There’s a cold arrogance to his tone that she doesn’t recognize in the slightest. Even in his worst moments, at his most violent, the white-hot rage that gripped him was an emotion. Now, she can’t hear anything in the way he speaks but idle scorn, as if addressing her is beneath his concern. As if he doesn’t care either way whether she answers.

Byleth also stands. “I think... I was sleeping.”

His stare seems to ice over even more, if possible. She holds it without flinching. “You don’t believe me.”

A joyless smile cuts across his face like an open wound. He turns away with a hard snort. “I suppose anything’s possible for the vessel of the Goddess.”

She’s surprised by how much his sarcasm stings. Whether he thinks she’s lying now or she was lying back then, it hurts all the same.

“What about you?” she presses. “What have you been doing all this time?”

“I have been dead, more or less.”

She frowns. “Why would you say that?”

Dimitri hesitates, and then with a dismissive snort he walks away, out of the Tower without looking back.

For an instant Byleth is stunned. Then she hurries after him, picking her way among the corpses on the bridge. “Dimitri! _Wait!_ Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” Again his tone is low, defeated. 

Byleth follows him back into the cathedral, where he stands before the remains of the altar. He doesn’t speak. Even when she takes hold of his arm, he only tenses up. She steps around in front him and only then does he look at her.

“Dimitri. What happened to you?” His eye narrows. She grasps his other arm, as well, as though she might possibly hold him in place. “After the battle,” she urges. “Have you been here since then?”

He turns his blind eye to her, but he doesn’t attempt to shake her off. Byleth waits, and after a long moment he answers.

“No. I… returned to Fhirdiad.” He draws a slow, hissing breath. His arms shake and his next words are a quiet growl. “She planned it. _All_ of it.”

“Planned what?” she prods gently.

“My… my uncle’s murder. The excuse to have me executed.”

Despite the lack of detail, it’s enough to give Byleth a vague picture. “The Empire took Fhirdiad,” she deduces slowly, disbelief in her voice. He doesn’t correct her. “You’ve been fighting all this time, then.” Again, no response. “What about the others? Our classmates－”

“Alive, dead. I don’t know.” Nor does he care, by the sound of it.

She sighs softly, shakily. Five years of fighting alone and fueled by his obsessive hatred. Could she have hoped for him to end up any better than this in those circumstances?

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes. She made a choice that day, doubling back for Rhea like she did. At the time she assumed it was the right one.

Now, the man before her is the result.

Dimitri turns his cold stare to her again. Whether it’s questioning or condemning, she can’t tell. “We… we’ll figure this out,” she says, an assurance to herself as much as him. “We’ll find allies. We’ll fight together－”

He huffs and starts to pull away, only to glare at her when her grip on him tightens. “Why?” he snaps.

“What do you mean _why_? Of course I’m coming with you.”

He glowers at her. “You disappeared for so long－” His voice wavers for an instant, but then it’s hard and angry again. “－and now you simply step in as though nothing ever happened?”

“What _else_ should I do?” she shoots back defensively. She isn’t used to seeing him like this－to being on the receiving end of his hostility. As well-deserved as she feels it is, unease floods her veins like a chill and makes it hard to think before speaking.

“This isn’t your fight.” This time Dimitri does tear free. He turns his back on her again, but only takes a few steps before stopping. “It’s no one’s fight but mine,” he says quietly, tersely. “This war started when I failed to kill her all those years ago. It will only end once I’ve rectified that mistake.”

“Do you really think you can do it alone?”

“If I must.”

Byleth steps in front of him again, but this time he doesn’t acknowledge her. He stares over her head, his gaze dark and distant. “You don’t have to. I know－I wasn’t there for you when I should have been－” She winces as she’s seized by a fresh wave of bitterness. “But I can help you now. Even you can’t just storm into the Empire and hope to come out alive－”

“My only concern is getting into it,” he interrupts flatly. “Not getting out.” His face darkens, looking pained. “I’ll cut a path through every soldier she throws at me. As long as I tear her head from her shoulders before I die… it doesn’t matter what happens after that.” He fixes Byleth with another withering glare. “Is that the kind of man you’ll follow into battle?”

As adept as she usually is at controlling her expression, she knows her heartache shows. “If that man is you? Always.”

Surprise flickers over his face like a passing shadow. He averts his gaze with a scowl, but his anger suddenly seems lacking. “Then you’re throwing your life away.”

“No more than you are.”

Dimitri bristles. “You aren’t－” he starts, but then appears to catch himself. “Don’t compare us. You don’t understand. You never did.”

“Dimitri, I agree Edelgard has to be stopped. But letting your anger take over like this is going to get you killed.” Just saying it out loud makes her feel sick. “No revenge is worth that. Would your family really want you to－”

_“Don’t speak as though you knew them!”_ His shout echoes through the cathedral like thunder. Despite the strong impulse to take a step back, Byleth resists. “You－you don’t know their anguish－you can’t hear their cries! You know _nothing_ of what my vengeance is worth!”

“Is it worth losing everything?” As her own voice starts to rise, his suddenly drops again, low and steady but humming with fury.

“It’s been the only thing keeping me alive these past five years－no－after the massacre, it was the only thing that gave me purpose. Vengeance has _always_ been my everything.”

“You had me,” she says coldly. “You had Dedue－”

“Dedue is _dead!_ ” he barks. Again his rage breaks, the grief in his shattered expression mirroring the shock of cold dread that knocks the air out of Byleth’s lungs. “And you－” He looks away. “You could never imagine the things I’ve done. I’ve come too far. Stooped too low. Even for you… I cannot stop.”

It takes Byleth a moment to find her voice. It comes out stronger than she feels.

“I’m not asking you to stop for my sake.” She takes a step forward. Despite the hostility in his face, his posture, she presses her palm to the cold armor over his chest. “I want you to stop for _yours._ ”

For an instant his breath catches, his gaze searching and uncertain and suddenly much more familiar.

Just for an instant, and then it’s closed off and haunted once more.

“I know what I want,” he growls. Again he turns away, returning to his place before the altar.

Byleth doesn’t follow this time. She just watches him for a long moment before finally speaking.

“What about forever? I remember you telling me _that_ was what you wanted.”

Dimitri’s silence is the longest yet. Then he turns, slowly－and his stare is dark and cold and emptier than the monastery’s halls.

“Five years... is a long time, Byleth. People change.” He cocks his head slightly, the motion uncharacteristically apathetic. “You of all people should know how fickle emotions can be.”

Try as she might, Byleth can’t catch a hint of anything in those words－no regret, no sadness, no disappointment. Even anger would be welcome because it would be telling. It would suggest that he’s lying.

But his tone is dead, indifferent, and the prolonged eye contact makes it that much worse.

Two days ago he held her and told her he loved her and it was _real_ , she _knows_ it was. Now…

Now thrusting his lance through her chest wouldn’t hurt anymore than his words do.

She feels dizzy, like she can’t quite catch her breath.

“Then why did you come back? Why today?” The words burn her mouth, hot like the pain in her chest and the tears stinging the backs of her eyes, but she clings to old habits and manages to keep her face something close to neutral.

“There are some rats that need exterminating.” His lip curls, his voice a rumble in his throat. “That’s all.”

It doesn’t make sense.

Even if his feelings changed－maybe they did, maybe that’s how emotions work, _she doesn’t know_ －this isn’t like Dimitri at all. There’s a method and reason to everything he does. He isn’t cruel. He would never hurt anyone without cause, even with his words.

When Dimitri walks past her, she expects him to have finished speaking, to keep going, to leave her alone where she stands.

But he stops at her side, mid-step, as though it’s an afterthought.

“If you value your life, stay away from me.”

She wants to think the weight in his voice is telling, but she doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

“Why? What does it matter to you either way now?” She looks up but he’s staring straight ahead, eye distant, as though he sees something she doesn’t.

“Because the man you loved wouldn’t want you dying for nothing. Consider that warning to be his final words.” Slowly, Dimitri meets her gaze. “He died the same day you did. Forget him.”

He doesn’t wait for those words to sink in.

He’s halfway across the cathedral before Byleth finds her voice.

“I’m coming with you.”

His steps slow for a beat, but then continue on at the same unperturbed pace.

When Byleth catches up to him a moment later, he continues on as if she isn’t there.

* * *

The two of them aren’t alone again until the following night.

The day passed in an unexpected flurry of activity－the battle with the thieves, the reunion with the others, long talks about future plans and strategy, efforts to get the monastery up and operable again. It’s close to midnight before Byleth knows it but her tired legs take her up the dormitory stairs and down the hall to Dimitri’s room, only to find it empty.

She enters briefly, looking for a sign that he’s been here since this morning, but the layer of dust over everything is undisturbed.

When she steps back into the corridor, she nearly jumps at the sight of Sylvain leaning against the next door over. He flashes her the usual charming smile.

“You know, _my_ room’s not so empty, if it’s company you’re looking for.” When Byleth’s flat expression doesn’t so much as budge, he puts his hands up with a grim laugh. “Kidding, kidding. Not the best time, I know. But I owe you five years’ worth of one-liners, so just know I’ll be making that up to you.” That last part’s punctuated with a wink.

Before Byleth can draw in a breath to sigh, Sylvain’s gaze wanders idly over the nearest wall as he remarks in a more serious tone, “Try the cathedral.”

“What?”

“He was there a while ago. Didn’t seem like he planned to leave anytime soon.” When he meets her gaze again, his carefree smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not that I’d blame you for steering clear. He’s not exactly as charming as he used to be, is he?”

She’s heard enough of his passive aggressive remarks to see this one for what it is. Maybe he thinks she’s already given up－or, more likely, he never wholly believed in her sincerity towards Dimitri to begin with.

“The cathedral,” she repeats with a small nod. “Thanks.” She’s at the top of the staircase when he speaks again.

“Byleth.” His smile’s gone when she looks back. “Don’t… do anything I wouldn’t, yeah?”

It seems like an unnecessary warning, but by now she knows that anything said by Sylvain with a straight face is at least worth acknowledging. This one strikes her as a surprising display of something close to trust, and that alone makes her consider that, for once, he’s being genuine.

His hint turns out to be correct: she finds the dark cathedral empty but for the lone figure standing, again, before the altar. She doesn’t try to mute her steps, but he doesn’t turn or speak, even when she stops at arm’s length behind him. Dimitri’s stillness and silence feel unnatural compared to the battle last night.

If she thought the massacre around the Goddess Tower had spoken of his savagery, it was nothing compared to seeing him in action. He moved like clockwork, slaying enemy after enemy as they came to him or he hunted them down. Most he killed in one hit—a swing of his lance, a rib-shattering strike of his fist, his fingers snapping necks as easily as porcelain.

Screams for mercy were ignored and he refused to stop until every last thief was dead. He didn’t seem to enjoy it—his face was grim every time Byleth noticed it and there was no scornful laughter, no vicious grin laced with ecstasy. He was death in motion, as quick and efficient as though he didn’t know how to be anything else.

And when it was all done, he only looked as tired and hollow as when they started.

Byleth doesn’t speak. She isn’t sure what can be said after Dimitri made his intentions crystal clear hours ago: by his own words, killing Edelgard is all he still lives for.

She wonders how true that is, what he’ll do if he succeeds.

It can’t be any worse than what will happen if he fails.

She retreats to the nearest pew and sits. He can reject and curse and ignore her all he wants, but she intends to make good on her side of their promise at last: to stay together, and to keep him safe.

No matter how dead set he seems on pushing her away.


	7. Chapter 7

Byleth makes the long trek from the cathedral to her room shortly after dawn, unsurprised to find the grounds much quieter than they once would have been on a school day. The monastery has been abuzz with activity since yesterday, and with no immediate plans to depart, everyone seems to be taking the opportunity to catch up on rest while they’re able.

She can only hope that’s Dimitri’s intention, as well. She awoke in her pew to find him gone and she still isn’t sure whether she’s worried or relieved that he finally left his self-appointed post. It doesn’t seem likely that he set off on his own－not yet, at least. His patience is clearly wearing thin, but his begrudging agreement to cooperate seemed genuine.

After checking his room again, just in case－still empty－Byleth heads back downstairs to her own quarters. She didn’t store anything of real value there before, so there wasn’t much for looters to steal other than candles and blankets; while the trunk beneath her bed has been opened and searched, she’s glad to find her old clothes are still there.

Without thinking twice, she strips out of her dirty, tattered student uniform. It feels like it really has been years since she last donned her thin leggings, but her hands remember the motions and she pulls them on without trouble, followed by the usual order of her shorts, her undershirt, her belt, her armor, her boots.

She hesitates when she picks up her coat, running her fingers over the symbol stitched across the shoulders. Then, tight-lipped, she tugs it on and makes quick work of tidying up the room.

She tries not to linger on the dents in her dresser, or the scrawling handwriting mixed in with her own among the papers she gathers. One of the books on her floor is a worn volume on Faerghus polearm techniques－Dimitri had it sent here from his personal library in Fhirdiad, all because of a minor comment she made about being curious about his fighting style.

The weight in her chest suddenly tightens with a twinge. She feels short of breath, and the book’s cover blurs as her eyes burn.

_Why am I crying?_ she wonders irritably, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. It feels wrong－no one died, and yet she recognizes this awful, suffocating feeling, as if something is trying to rip its way out of her.

A light knock on the door breaks her from her thoughts.

“Byleth? Are you awake?”

She wipes at her eyes and clears her throat. “One second.” She does her best to gather her composure, fanning the heat from her face as she goes to open the door. On the other side, Annette beams cheerfully up at her.

“Good morning! I thought－oh. Did you just wake up? You look a little…”

Byleth shakes her head. “Kind of a late night, yeah. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Well… if you’re up for it, I was wondering if you want to have breakfast with me and Mercie. Everything was so crazy yesterday that we didn’t get the chance to really catch up.”

Byleth hesitates, already tempted to turn her down in favor of locating the wayward prince－but she hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, and after Dimitri’s harsh and one-sided company, the offer is tempting. She’s curious what they’ve been up to, and maybe it will distract her from this misplaced fit of grief.

She nods. “I’d like that.”

“Oooh, yay!” Annette steps inside to link their arms. “Let’s go! Oh－well, if you’re ready. Are you ready?”

Despite the shock of everything in the last couple days, as well as the flurry of emotion it’s all left in its wake, Byleth can’t help but smile at her friend’s unfazed enthusiasm. At least some things haven’t changed. “Yeah, let’s go.”

* * *

Byleth finds that keeping her hands busy helps.

Even after the monastery is back in good condition and a lot more people have returned to lend their support, there’s plenty of upkeep to be done and she’s glad to have something to do. Her days vary－when she isn’t consulting with Seteth and the Knights on new developments (or lack thereof), she finds work in the stables and greenhouse and kitchen. Otherwise she’s sparring with Felix and Ingrid, helping Ashe catch fish for the dining hall, assisting Mercedes with cleaning, volunteering for patrol, anything she can think of to keep busy.

Her nights, without exception, are spent in the cathedral. The pews are uncomfortable and Dimitri continues to ignore her even when she tries speaking to him, but Byleth persists.

Before long, it’s not a secret anymore. She ignores the sympathetic glances of the church staff, but her friends are more tactful－for the most part. While Dimitri comes up often in conversation－everyone is worried about him, in varying degrees of admission－and while there are some sidelong glances in Byleth’s direction, no one questions or comments on her involvement with him as anything other than a concerned classmate. Sylvain, of course, is the eventual exception one morning, inquiring as to whether Byleth is “single now, or is it just complicated?” and earning a jab to the arm with Ingrid’s fork.

She’s passing through the cathedral one afternoon when Felix, of all people, stops her. “Hey. I’ve got a request concerning that... creature.”

Byleth can’t remember the last time she saw him in the chapel, if ever. She tears her gaze away from Dimitri’s still figure across the room to shoot Felix a puzzled look despite the annoyance that his words stir up in her. “What is it?”

“I can hardly look at the thing in the state it’s in. Do something about it.”

Despite his choice of words, his tone lacks the usual degree of disdain he reserves for speaking about Dimitri. He sounds more frustrated than spiteful.

Byleth’s surprised by how irritated she feels. Is he the only one who doesn’t realize that she’s been _trying?_

When she doesn’t immediately reply, Felix gives a soft snort. “If _you’ve_ given up, the boar’s more of a lost cause than I thought.”

Again, he sounds resigned－and again, Byleth is annoyed. Mirroring Dimitri’s dismissal, she’s always ignored Felix’s remarks, trusting that the two were friends despite the one-sided enmity between them. But if there’s something to pity here－a man realizing his mistakes too late, who’s turning to her out of desperation rather than pride－it goes over Byleth’s head. She considers Felix a friend, but she finds she has little sympathy to spare for him right now.

“Why are you asking me? Maybe he needs to hear it from one of his oldest friends.”

He avoids her eyes completely by turning away with a scoff. “Ingrid and Sylvain have tried－”

“So that just leaves you, then.” Out of spiteful impulse, she adds, “As usual.”

His posture doesn’t change, but Byleth sees him bristle. “I hardly need lecturing from someone who just up and disappeared for five years. Maybe if you hadn’t, he would’ve been content to keep playing house with you and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

It’s only slightly harsher than the thoughts that have been haunting her for the last few days. Along with old habits, it’s probably why her hurt doesn’t show on her face.

“Maybe so,” she agrees tonelessly.

Felix looks taken aback, as if he expected more of a fight out of her than that. He exhales sharply as he casts a glance Dimitri’s way. “We tracked the boar for five years. I thought he was dead. In the state he’s in, he might as well be.”

His words mirror Dimitri’s own so closely that Byleth tenses. Does their old friendship run so deep that they know each other that well? Or is there some truth behind the sentiment, as crazy as it sounds?

“He’s gotten better at killing people,” Felix goes on, “and in exchange, surrendered what little humanity he had.”

Byleth’s eyes narrow. Maybe she was giving him too much credit. Anyone who spent a day with Dimitri at the academy would know he was so much more than the ghosts of his past. It’s as though Felix’s view is the polar opposite of hers: he’s always seen a monster masquerading as a man, while she’s only ever known a boy struggling with a lot of pain.

She already knows her argument would fall on deaf ears, so she doesn’t voice those thoughts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were talking about two different people.”

He shrugs dismissively. “You saw what you wanted to see.”

She makes a mental note to lay Felix out on his ass the next time they spar together.

* * *

If Dimitri’s rage and single-minded obsession make him no better than a corpse, then the battle against the imperial invasion is the first time he seems truly alive.

When news of the attack arrives, everyone else in the room grows solemn－but he smiles, and it’s the emptiest look Byleth has ever seen on his face.

It’s different from the fight against the thieves. Dimitri was overzealous then, but he was brutally efficient; with the Empire’s soldiers, it’s as though he plays with them. Most of the time he doesn’t even use his lance, but his hands, crushing skulls and breaking bones with casual ease, hurling men larger than himself around like dolls and only appearing to use his weapon as an afterthought.

He twists one soldier’s arm so hard that Byleth hears the _pop_ of the shoulder leaving the socket, and the man’s screams only stop when Dimitri caves his face in with a skull-shattering headbutt. She can’t tell who the bloody rivulets on his face belong to, but his wild gaze and wilder grin are chilling all the same.

It’s as though killing them isn’t enough－he wants to hurt and maim as many as he can, as _personally_ as he can by breaking them with his own hands.

Worse, he doesn’t always finish the kill. Either he’s deaf to the agonized cries of the broken, dying trail of soldiers he leaves in his wake, or－as Byleth uneasily suspects－their slow deaths are intentional.

When the commander finally falls, she’s relieved, but for the enemy as well as their own forces. Imperial or not, Dimitri’s methods are too much. Later, once he’s calmed down, she’ll talk with him about it.

That silent promise puts her more or less at ease as she quickly tends to the minor wounds of her allies－at least, until those around her grow quiet, and she realizes she can hear Dimitri’s voice nearby.

“－now that your life is at its end, will you hold to the lie that your hands are not stained red with blood?”

“This… this is war,” a second voice answers, loud despite its strain. “I did what I had to for the Empire… for the people… for my family!”

Byleth pushes her way through what’s become a wall of onlookers. At the front she finds the imperial commander, battered and on his knees before Dimitri, whose face is a cold mask of disdain.

“So, you are piling up corpses for the _people_ and for your _family_ ,” he mocks, nearly spitting the words. “And I am doing the same for the salvation of the dead…” Suddenly he smiles, but it’s more threatening than any display of rage would be. “After all is said and done, we are both murderers. _Both_ stained. _Both_ monsters.”

The man’s shoulders shake. “You’re _wrong!_ ”

The morbid amusement in Dimitri’s face disappears as quickly as a snuffed flame. “Am I? I can smell the rotting flesh upon your hands even now, General.”

“Enough! _That’s enough!_ ”

Dimitri snorts. The man before him might as well be an insect that he may or may not squash at any moment. “I won’t kill you right away, my fellow monster. Unless you object to watching your friends die－ _one… by… one._ ”

Dread slides down Byleth’s spine in a hard chill. She expected to see Dimitri snap－but she expected blind rage and roaring, violent fury. This is the opposite, cold and calculating and deliberate. It’s new and unfamiliar. It’s not like him at all.

He sounds positively gleeful as he continues, “If so, I will do you the service of removing your eyes first, so that you can listen to their screams as I take each and every one of their miserable lives, _slowly._ Is that what you want, General? To hear them grovel as you do now? To know they died in agony all because you _did what you had to?_ ”

A low, uneasy murmur breaks out among the crowd at Byleth’s back. She steps forward. “Dimitri－”

“I know some of them are screaming already. Can you hear them? Broken and bleeding upon _your_ battlefield, suffering and throwing their lives away under _your_ command?”

“You _bastard!_ ” The general lunges clumsily to his feet, staggering forward as he draws a knife. Dimitri, as easily as though deflecting a child, catches the man’s wrist and forces it into a right angle with a muffled _snap._ He looks bored as the man chokes back an agonized cry.

Then in the blink of an eye he seizes the soldier’s throat and forces his head back, snatching the dagger from his limp fingers. “The eyes it is,” he says with chilling calm.

Byleth darts towards him, far too late. _“Dimitri!”_

The man’s bloodcurdling scream is abruptly silenced－along with Dimitri’s harsh breathing and the crackle of flames and every other sound around them. For an instant the world is a black and white blur, a jumble of noise that only makes sense to Byleth.

And then, as abruptly as the snap of a finger, time resumes once more.

“－can smell the rotting flesh upon your hands even now, General.”

“Enough! _That’s enough!_ ”

Byleth strides forward, hand on her hilt.

“I won’t kill you right away, my fellow monster. Unless you object to watching your friends die－ _one… by… one._ ” Dimitri doesn’t look up as she enters his field of view, even when she steps up behind the commander. “If so, I will do you the service of removing your eyes first so that－”

She makes it quick: she draws her blade in one swift motion and sinks it into the man’s back in the next. His cry is a dying one, his entire body gone limp even before he hits the ground, gasping and muttering under his last breath.

Dimitri stares at the corpse expressionlessly. When he finally turns to Byleth, there’s so much contempt in his gaze that her fingers reflexively tighten around her weapon.

“What,” he demands quietly, “is the meaning of this?”

The arrogance there is palpable. She’s not sure if he even sees her right now, or if she’s just a faceless obstacle to his anger.

She holds the look. “I miss the old Dimitri.”

His scowl flattens into a hard line. “I told you. He’s dead. All that remains is the repulsive, bloodstained monster you see before you.”

When Byleth says nothing, he steps over the commander’s body to stand directly before her, towering over her. He doesn’t so much as blink.

“If you do not approve of what I have become, then kill me.”

Her control slips. She breathes in sharply, lips parted and eyes wide. His gaze rakes over her face to say he’s noticed, as if he’s proud of it, savoring it. The smell of blood and death emanating off of him is overwhelming.

When she remains silent still, his face darkens. It almost has the air of disappointment. “If you insist that you cannot… then I will continue to use you _and_ your friends until the flesh falls from your bones.”

He steps around her, passing so closely that his cape snakes briefly over her legs. She continues staring straight ahead, listening to his retreating steps and the awkward shuffling of their audience.

This time, Byleth doesn’t follow him.

* * *

Since the night they were reunited, whatever remained of _her_ Dimitri seems to have disappeared. Byleth can’t tell if it’s coincidence, or if he’s purposely smothering those remains, or if her presence is to blame. Maybe, by coming back, she only made things worse.

Another month passes and it’s all the same—in battle Dimitri thrives, and outside of it he sinks deeper and deeper into isolation.

Nights are his lowest point. He rants and raves, screams and weeps, but his long silences are the worst. It doesn’t take Byleth long to catch on to the nature of his hallucinations, and that makes it all the more uncomfortable and heart-wrenching to watch.

More than once, she ignores her better judgment and approaches him, touching his arm, taking his hand, even pulling him into an embrace when he falls to his knees one night. At the worst, he recoils, but most of the time he doesn’t react at all.

Where Byleth once thought he ignored her presence, now she doubts he even realizes she’s there.

She wonders if his delusions are new, or if those haunted looks she used to catch on his face on early mornings were more than the product of nightmares.

She doesn’t ask, because she’ll get no answer.

* * *

Sweat is streaming down her face and her throat is raw from breathing in the stifling heat by the time the Fraldarius troops show up. She abandoned her coat before the battle but her exposed skin is bright red and burning, her hair and clothes clinging to her like a second flesh, and she can’t imagine how the Kingdom-native soldiers are holding up.

If anything, Ailell’s heat appears to spur Dimitri onward as though he’s running on spite alone. Despite the increasing sluggishness to his movements, he’s as merciless in his kills as usual. However hot the flames of the valley, his rage towards the Kingdom’s traitors burns hotter.

Between the oppressive heat, keeping an eye on Dimitri and their soldiers and the enemy line, and the uneasy pressure to mind her energy in case she needs to use Divine Pulse, Byleth eventually slips. She’s just fought her way through a group and struck down the mage at the back when she senses someone behind her. She whirls around—just in time to see Dimitri descend on the swordsman like a hawk, wrapping his hand around the man’s head and driving it into the ground with so much force that Byleth feels it in her soles. She has a feeling the loud _crack_ is more than just his helm splitting, especially when he doesn’t move again.

Dimitri stands, glowering at her. “Watch yourself,” he pants. “You’re better than that.”

Before she can retort, he takes off, back into the fray.

After the battle, Byleth and Gilbert agree not to push the overheated soldiers any further than necessary, and so the army makes camp on a riverbank just outside the valley. After cooling down for a bit, she takes a change of clothes and heads into the forest, where she breaks away from the river to follow a small stream downhill.

She finds a dense patch of trees within shouting distance of the campsite and decides to stop there. It’s unlikely that any enemy soldiers have snuck around this far, but she keeps her sword close at hand as she starts to undress.

The sound of a branch snapping sends her spinning, her blade torn from its sheath in the same instant—and for the second time she finds herself unexpectedly face-to-face with Dimitri.

He looks awful. He’s still flushed and breathing hard, his shoulders slouched and one hand on a tree to prop himself up. It’s not that surprising that he’s out here—he tends to wander away from camp more often than not—but he looks dazed, and his eye can’t seem to focus on her despite how hard he’s squinting.

“Dimitri?” Byleth sheathes her sword and steps forward. “What’s wrong?”

He grimaces, and then opens his mouth—and suddenly stumbles forward, nearly falling to his knees. She takes hold of his arms to steady him, but he shakes her off with a snarl that she ignores to reach up and press the back of her hand to his cheek.

“You’re burning up,” she notes with a frown. He pushes past her and makes his way to the water’s edge, with her a step behind. “Hang on. You overdid it, so you should—”

He rounds on her, glaring, only to stumble again, and this time he can’t stop himself from leaning into her as his legs give out. His weight forces them both to their knees.

“Easy,” Byleth murmurs when he starts to pull away. “It’s the heat. We need to get you cooled off.” It’s not the first time she’s seen this affliction, and that’s what worries her. If he keeps pushing himself, he could faint at best and seriously endanger his health at worst.

Maybe his fatigue gets him to surrender, or maybe he’s too dazed to resist anymore—either way, Dimitri goes still. Without another word Byleth unclasps his heavy mantle from his shoulders and shoves it away, and then sets about removing his armor.

His hands are too clumsy to provide any help, so she gently pushes them aside when he tries. He mumbles something incoherent, but doesn’t argue.

Once Dimitri’s down to his tunic, she wets her towel in the stream and drapes it over his head for a few moments. He looks smaller without his armor, she notes, much more like the lean figure she remembers so clearly—but when she peels his shirt off, her breath catches.

She can still recall how it felt to run her hands over his skin—his back and hands were covered in violent memories even then, but her fingers would only catch on the occasional scar anywhere else. Now…

Now she can’t even begin to count them. His chest and sides, arms and shoulders, _everything_ is covered in a map of pale welts and jagged lines. Some scars are hair-thin, others are nearly as wide as her wrist. Some look years old, others more recent. There’s some deep bruising above his hip and along his collarbone, and she wonders how long he’s been concealing those.

She’s almost glad he’s delirious; no doubt he would mock her for staring. Swallowing her latest twinge of guilt and concern, Byleth takes hold of his hands to help him to his feet. “Come on,” she says quietly. “In the water.”

She undresses him without much issue, and then kicks off her boots before leading him to where the stream dips deepest. He inhales sharply when she sits him down in the chest-deep water. Once she’s confident he’s in no immediate danger of passing out, Byleth gathers up his clothes, gives them a quick rinse in the stream, and then hangs them over a branch to dry before stripping out of her own clothes and doing the same.

When she enters the water a few minutes later, Dimitri seems to be dozing, eye closed and shoulders relaxed. Byleth washes herself off as best she can, scrubbing at the blood on her knuckles and the dirt on her arms, and then soaking her hair to rinse out the sweat. Eventually, she feels cleaner.

Dimitri hasn’t moved. She makes her way over to him and touches his cheek again, which is a little cooler than before. She dips her hands in the water and runs them lightly across his shoulders and up his neck.

He twitches slightly and she pauses. When he doesn’t move again, she re-wets her hands and brushes water through his hair, across his forehead, and then cups his face.

This is the most clearly she’s looked at him since… well, in five years. Relaxed like this, he looks so much more like he did then; his angles are sharper, and she’s not sure if he grew into them or it’s a result of his obvious malnourishment.

She wonders about his hidden eye—when he lost it, how, and whether she could have saved it if she’d been there.

Biting back a sigh, she starts to withdraw, only to stiffen when he moves (she hates that she’s developed such a reflex in response to him—even now, she trusts him, her fighter’s instincts be damned—), but he just turns his face into her hand as if to catch it. Byleth freezes, surprise and a bittersweet feeling taking her breath away as his lips graze her palm, just like they used to.

It’s an accident, she quickly deduces—except his hand settles over hers, holding her there with a tenderness she’s been convinced he forgot.

Slowly, cautiously, she sweeps her thumb across his cheek and he turns to look at her.

She can see the instant that clarity returns to him. Dimitri goes unnaturally still, the daze in his eye fading like fog as every line in his face hardens. He scowls and flicks her hand away, pauses as he takes in her state of undress, and then instantly averts his gaze with a snort that sounds a little too disinterested to be genuine.

“What are you doing,” he snaps.

In a better mood, that would make her smile, but she’s finding that nearly impossible to do around him these days. Byleth just cocks a curious eyebrow. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” she points out. He still doesn’t look at her, and she can’t tell if she’s flattered by his modesty or disappointed that he isn’t more tempted to look at her. Mostly, she’s relieved to see something familiar in his behavior.

Her eyes fall to that large bruise on his chest. She calls a small healing spell to mind as she reaches for it, commenting, “You really should be more careful. You aren’t doing yourself any favors by pushing your body that hard.”

Dimitri only grunts.

“I mean it.” After a beat, she adds, “You’re better than that.”

He glares at her, but her gaze is still on the rapidly fading bruise.

“Take care of yourself first,” he mutters, “before you waste your time on me.”

Even after she finishes healing him, Byleth remains where she is for a long moment, thinking. She has his attention now, and it’s the least hostile attention he’s given her in weeks. She might as well take advantage of it, as well as the fact that he’s in no condition to walk away just yet.

She takes his face in her hands again, tilting his head towards her as she sits sideways on his lap.

“What are you—” His hand locks onto her thigh tightly enough to sting, but he doesn’t push her off. If he’s trying to keep her from sliding any closer, that’s fine—that’s not the point she’s trying to make. He’s gone rigidly tense beneath her, his expression as confused as it is annoyed.

“We’ve always been honest with each other,” she says firmly. “So be honest with me now.”

Dimitri tries to look away but she plants her arms against his chest, grounding her grip and holding him still. He soon gives up and meets her gaze again, looking as wary as a cornered animal.

Her question is a simple one.

“What is it you want?”

She can see the agitation and obvious answer building in his face. Before he can snap at her, she goes on, “You say killing Edelgard is all that matters to you—but then you turn around and say things like I should kill you, and I shouldn’t bother helping you. Which is it, Dimitri?”

Something in him shifts. Byleth doesn’t see it, doesn’t feel it, but she just _knows_ —she’s touched on something dark and deep.

She lets him turn his head this time, her hands falling to settle on his shoulders. Even with his blind eye to her, something about his tight expression feels forced.

“I want what I’ve always wanted,” he replies quietly, a little hoarsely. “To avenge everyone I’ve lost. I want to end their suffering by erasing their regrets.”

“Is that what they tell you every night?”

Dimitri turns back sharply, eying her as if he suspects that she’s mocking him. When he fails to find any scorn in her face, he looks down, away.

“The voices you hear are theirs, aren’t they?” she pushes gently, carefully.

After a moment, he gives what she interprets as a small, stiff nod.

Byleth breathes out slowly. She releases him from her gaze for the time being, watching her fingertips wipe absently at the water droplets on his skin.

It isn’t her place to tell him he’s wrong—not in his desires, at least. She, too, knew the lust for revenge once. As he pointed out before, she didn’t know his family, so she can’t say much on that, either.

Neither will she say that he’s out of his mind. Who’s to say he is? Maybe there’s some truth to the ghosts haunting him, or maybe his worn and grieving mind is coping in the only way it knows how. Either way, it doesn’t make him crazy or beyond reach—it makes him someone in need of help, even if he doesn’t yet realize it himself.

“So it falls to you to do this,” she deduces, “since you’re the only one left.”

“I’m the only one who can.”

Again, she digests that before speaking. “That sounds like a responsibility. Not something you want.”

“It isn’t about me,” he replies, tone short.

“What about after it’s done? What will you want then?”

It’s so subtle that Byleth wonders if she imagined it, or maybe mistook a shift in the water’s current—but right then his grip on her thigh seems to tighten ever so slightly for the briefest of moments.

“It doesn’t matter,” he grumbles. “Why plan for a future that was never mine to begin with?”

_You promised it to me once,_ she thinks, but she keeps that to herself. Any talk of that sort will likely send him in the other direction. She’s surprised he’s even being this talkative, but maybe his heat stroke was more severe than she thought.

“And if you die before you get revenge,” she wonders suddenly, “then what? You die with your own regrets, and suffer for them, too?” It’s an honest question asked in earnest curiosity, reminiscent of their past days when she would ask about something and he would gladly tell.

“If I do, it’s only fitting. My sins demand no less.”

Has he always been this hard on himself? Were there signs before that she missed? Or was his decline since then really so steep?

“I guess... it’d fall to me, then, wouldn’t it?” Byleth muses grimly. “Avenging you. Helping you find peace.” The Empire must fall either way, regardless of anyone’s personal vendetta, but if Dimitri dies for his cause, she already knows what her feelings will be: the same hurt, the same rage, the same violent grief as before.

Her remark is almost an absent one, spoken to herself as much as Dimitri. She expects him to dismiss it, or to ignore it entirely.

She doesn’t expect him to fix her with such a hard stare, or to feel his fingers press again into her leg.

“No.” Despite the heat in that single word, he doesn’t explain.

Byleth frowns. “Why—”

“ _No,_ ” he repeats in a guttural growl. He stands so abruptly that he nearly dumps her in the water, and then stalks away without another word.

“Dimitri—” She follows him onto the bank, where she almost walks into him when he turns back without warning.

“I already told you to stay away,” he snaps. “If you want to be useful, keep your eyes on the enemy, not me.”

Her expression settles defensively into something apathetic. “Right. You’ve done such a good job keeping an eye on yourself, after all.”

Dimitri ignores her, snatching his damp clothes off the tree with so much force that the branch comes with them. With a milder degree of irritation, Byleth also starts to dress.

“I know I’m late,” she says after a moment, “but I promised to stay near you. I’m not backing down on that.”

He snorts, and doesn’t have to turn around for her to picture the bitter smile on his face. “Is that it, then? Redemption? You trail after me in hopes of putting your feelings of guilt to rest?”

He doesn’t believe that. She knows he doesn’t. He’s not that far gone.

He knows perfectly well why she cares, why she’s still here. Byleth truly doesn’t know what his feelings are now, whether there’s anything left beneath all the crushing sorrow and anger, but she knows how _she_ feels, and she’s always been as honest with him as she can be.

It only makes sense to keep being honest.

“No,” she answers coolly as she pulls her dry tunic over her head. “I stay because I love you.”

She doesn’t miss the way he completely freezes for an instant. He resumes tying his belt with a bit too much force.

“Then you’re wasting your time.” His voice comes out too low for her to believe he’s as nonchalant as he’s trying to sound. “I won’t repeat myself again. Forget what we were.”

Byleth watches him shrug on his undershirt. “Is forgetting really as easy as you make it sound?”

Dimitri doesn’t answer. He straps all of his armor into place with practiced motions, pulls on his gloves and boots, buckles his mantle. Only when he retrieves his lance and turns to leave does he finally speak.

“No. But it’s better than chasing a ghost.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I honestly don’t know _why_ you’re making such a fuss over this, Sylvain.”

“Uh, for starters, this is the first time you’ve shown any interest in a girl since you were－what, twelve?”

Dimitri grimaced. “Would you _please_ let that go? You’re the only one who remembers that, and for all the wrong reasons.”

At his side, Sylvain laughed and stretched his arms over his head. “Maybe I’d be more inclined to forget it if you gave me something more interesting to think about.”

In his annoyance it was a struggle not to sigh or crush the spine of the book he carried, but Dimitri managed. “What do you want to know?” he asked wearily. “I already told you how we met, and Byleth could tell you about herself better than I could.”

Sylvain certainly made no exceptions in his behavior when speaking with her, either. He was just as forward, just as playfully flirtatious, even if he usually sent a glance or a grin Dimitri’s way to see how he reacted. Byleth, unsurprisingly, was unfazed, and Dimitri was confident his friend wasn’t genuinely trying to ruin a good thing for him, so as usual Sylvain was ignored.

He was a bit more difficult to ignore, however, when he continued to hound Dimitri for details like this. Worse, today Sylvain had caught him on his way to the library and promptly attached himself to the prince’s side, determined to get something out of him during the long trek across the monastery grounds.

“Oh, you know－typical stuff. Since you’re still…” Sylvain searched for the right word, his tone light. “－ _new_ at this, I just thought I’d see how you two were doing. If you needed any advice or anything.”

“That’s… kind of you to offer, but I’m quite certain we’re doing just fine. We’re comfortable with one another－she’s quite easy to talk to.” Dimitri smiled without realizing it, that increasingly familiar warmth fluttering in his chest again. “I would not change anything.”

“She’s easy to talk to,” Sylvain repeated with a thoughtful nod. “Cool, cool. That’s, uh, that’s good. Is that… _all_ you two do?”

“Well, no. We train together frequently. And studying is－” Catching Sylvain’s sidelong look, Dimitri realized the implication and scowled. “Sylvain!”

“What? What? Like I said, you’re new at this! I wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself if you－”

“Your Highness.”

Both boys stopped mid-step, tensing in mutual surprise at the voice. They turned to find Jeralt just behind them, his face the usual blend of stoic and bored that Dimitri had come to recognize.

For a humiliating moment he wasn’t sure how much Jeralt had heard, but the older man suddenly gave a gruff smile, or something like it. “You busy?”

“Oh－not particularly, no,” Dimitri answered. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Jeralt jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the direction of the stables. “Thought I’d ask you to join me for a ride in the forest. It’s been a while since we talked, y’know? We can use the opportunity to catch up.”

Dimitri perked up at that. “Of course! I’d be honored. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll join you shortly.”

Jeralt glanced at Sylvain, then back to Dimitri. “Good,” he said simply, and the two stepped aside as he passed between them.

Once he was out of earshot, Sylvain turned to Dimitri with a solemn look. “Your Highness, be honest with me: do you have a death wish?”

“What?”

Sighing, Sylvain clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to find your body for the funeral.”

Half an hour later, Dimitri and Jeralt steered their horses through the monastery gate and onto the path that branched away from the main road, taking them down to the thick treeline. Dimitri had been this way a few times, mostly for training exercises, but Jeralt led him to a different path than the one the class had used before, a break in the trees further down that was easily overlooked unless one knew it was there.

It was a warm day, not uncomfortably so, but it was pleasantly cool beneath the forest canopy. The path was just wide enough for two horses, and while it wound and dipped through the trees, Dimitri noticed it was well-kept and well-used. For the first time since mounting their steeds, he broke the silence to try for conversation.

“Is this one of the Knights’ patrol routes?”

“It is. Wouldn’t recommend running it for fun, though. Thing winds through the forest like a maze; unless you fancy yourself a pretty good tracker, it’s easy to run in circles for hours.”

Sylvain’s words returned to him and Dimitri nearly made a physical motion of shaking them from his head. What an absurd notion. He and Jeralt went back a couple years now; an invitation such as this was natural, even if it had been unexpected.

“Well, I must thank you for the invitation. It’s been a while since I went for a casual ride.”

“Same here.”

Silence resumed. Dimitri realized he’d already lost track of where they were; the sun was too high to even give him a sense of direction.

“This was Byleth’s idea, actually,” Jeralt grunted. “More or less.”

“I’m sorry? Byleth’s?”

Jeralt shrugged, still staring ahead. “She said what I thought of you was important to her. Made me realize I hadn’t put that much thought into an opinion, if I’m being honest.”

“She said that? Truly?” Dimitri felt both flattered and pressured all at once.

“She also said you liked riding, so.” Another shrug. “Seems as good a time as any to have a heart-to-heart.”

“Ah.” Dimitri sat a little straighter in his saddle, eyes fixed forward. “Is... there anything in particular you want to know about me?”

“I know enough _about_ you already. I don’t put much stock in gossip, but it’s hard not to catch wind of the stories about the royal family.” Jeralt glanced at him and Dimitri thought the look might have been a touch sympathetic, or at least not as indifferent as usual. He wondered if Byleth had learned her previously short range of expressions from her father. “With all due respect, Your Highness, if I wanted to know about your achievements or your history, I could ask just about anyone. That’s not the same as getting to know you personally.”

“Well… to start with, I must insist that such formalities are not necessary. I prefer not to think of myself as a prince while I am here, so please, don’t feel obligated to bother with titles.”

“Hm.”

It was hard to tell whether the sound was thoughtful or amused. Jeralt’s expression didn’t budge either way.

“Fair enough,” he mused. “Can’t blame you for wanting to enjoy time away from all the hassle of high society.”

“I suppose that’s part of it,” said Dimitri slowly. “But more importantly, I don’t want my classmates to feel pressured by societal divides. We are all here as students and comrades-in-arms. Social standing is irrelevant here, as far as I am concerned.”

Jeralt was quiet for a moment. “That’s not a bad way of thinking, kid. A bit on the idealistic side, but not bad.”

Dimitri nodded with a mild frown. “I am aware.”

“Still－even if you get to play the part of a normal guy now, you’ll go back to being a prince eventually. Meaning you’ll have to leave some things behind.” Jeralt met his gaze evenly, his tone gruff again. “I’ll be honest－I’m wondering if Byleth is gonna be one of those things.”

Dimitri stiffened in surprise. “What? No, of course not. I…” He stopped, pushing down his defensive reflex to quickly think Jeralt’s words through. He was suggesting that Dimitri was－what? That he only saw Byleth as some sort of fling? Was only involved with her because his distance from Faerghus temporarily allowed it?

But then, how much did Jeralt know? Had Byleth mentioned they were more than friends now? Had he simply noticed? Could he even have assumed it started before they reunited at Garreg Mach?

“Captain Jeralt,” said Dimitri finally, seriously, once he’d collected his thoughts, “I assure you, I hold Byleth in the highest regard. We haven’t discussed what her plans are after graduating, but I fully intend to keep in contact with her, to whatever extent she is agreeable with.”

With the horses needing little guidance in following the trail, he couldn’t busy his hands with the reins as much while he spoke. He felt a little awkward, a little exposed, and that wasn’t even including his hesitation on the topic at hand. He had entertained some optimistic thoughts, but was content to take things day-by-day in the way that Byleth seemed to prefer. Never had he thought he would be discussing this first with her father of all people.

“I grew up with several long-distance friendships,” Dimitri went on, “and they are still important to me to this day. If Byleth decides that is what she wants, I will respect that.”

“Friendships,” Jeralt echoed with a sidelong glance. Dimitri felt heat trickling into his face.

“Well—yes, or—anything else that she might…”

Jeralt watched him flounder for a painfully long moment.

“Kid,” he said finally, “I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ll be damned if anyone with eyes around here hasn’t noticed the way you look at her.”

That bit of heat ignited into a full flush. “Oh. I, um… Well… That is to say, I—”

“I’m not here to make her decisions for her,” Jeralt interrupted. “But I am curious what the prince of Faerghus finds so interesting about a commoner with no history to her name.”

Ah. There it was.

It was a fair question, given the way the world unfortunately worked. Dimitri certainly couldn’t fault him for his suspicion.

“Captain Jeralt—perhaps you find this hard to believe—and I understand if you would—but on my honor, I swear to you that I don’t care for such things.” Despite the embarrassment still evident on his face, Dimitri’s gaze and tone were level. “When I befriended Byleth… and when I realized how much she means to me… nothing was further from my mind than the matter of her history and heritage. I don’t deny that much of Faerghus doesn’t share my way of thinking, but… suffice to say there are many things I hope to change one day.”

He hadn’t been as secretive with their relationship as he could have been—they kept all but the lightest displays of affection private, and as Jeralt had observed, some of it just manifested naturally—but had Dimitri thought for even an instant that it would impact Byleth negatively, he would have rethought his feelings long before kissing her that morning in the training grounds.

But taking an inconsequential lover here and there was, to an extent, expected among Faerghus nobility. As young as he was, it hadn’t gone over his head that such a thing was often, perhaps always overlooked, provided no political scandal was involved. As tightly as his advisors preferred to keep their grip on him, they would think nothing of him romancing a nobody while he was away if word of it reached them. Only if he seriously moved forward with her afterwards would he meet any resistance—and he planned to be crowned long before that argument could gain any kind of foothold.

Rousing himself from that train of thought, Dimitri smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry—I didn’t answer your question, did I? As for what I find interesting about her…” He fingered the pommel of his sword with his thumb. “I’m not sure I could give a short answer. I admire how straightforward and honest she is, that she is both independent and kind. I appreciate that she’s always treated me as she would anyone else.”

His eyes grew distant as he stared at the trees ahead. “In a way, she strikes me as being… separate from the world around her. As though she sees things differently than I do—or anyone, for that matter. In the beginning, I was surprised that she knew so little of the world, but… I think she has made the most of her point of view. She speaks honestly, objectively. She learns and acts on what she believes—not simply what’s expected of her.”

He trailed off for a moment—and then stiffened self-consciously as he realized he’d been rambling. “I’m—Forgive me—I didn’t mean to go on so—” He stopped as he caught sight of Jeralt’s lopsided smile. Unexpectedly, the older man laughed—the first that Dimitri had heard out of him—but it was a mirthful sound, and not at all mocking.

“I think you’re in the wrong line of work. You’re too earnest for a politician.” Dimitri flushed again as Jeralt shook his head. “But okay, I get it.”

“You… do?”

“I get that you’re one of those hopeless romantic types.”

“Ah…”

Jeralt snorted. “I wasn’t name-calling. Nothing wrong with that; hell, maybe Faerghus needs a softer touch these days.” He rolled his large shoulders and cracked his neck, and then sighed. “Y’know… I agree with everything you said. Byleth’s always been like that. But the funny thing is, she’s changed a lot in the last couple years.” He shook his head with another, softer snort. “She’s changed so much, but she’s still the same.”

Dimitri didn’t reply, unsure whether Jeralt was speaking to him or just out loud.

“Like I said, I’m not here to make her decisions for her. I’ll always look out for her, and probably stick my nose where it isn’t wanted—” He smiled wryly. “—but she’s entitled to living her own life. That’s why I’ll say this, Dimitri.” The look faded as quickly as it appeared; he pulled his horse to a halt. “She’s learned a lot from you. As far as I can tell, it’s been for the better. I’m trusting you not to take advantage of that.”

“Of course, I would never—”

“Maybe not intentionally, you wouldn’t. But people tend to go to extremes when it comes to someone they care about. I don’t think Byleth is any different from you or me in that way.”

Without the steady gait of the horses, the forest felt heavily silent, unnaturally still, as if the world suddenly hung on what Jeralt said next.

“I’m just asking that you try to see the world from her point of view. You can say it’s my fault if you want—you wouldn’t be wrong—but she doesn’t always know what she’s getting into. I’ve given her little reason to question where she’s guided, and even less to think the world’s as ugly as it really is.” His eyes narrowed in thought as he glanced aside, and then he regarded Dimitri evenly. “The opposite of you, you could say.”

For an instant Dimitri felt vulnerable under that stare, as if Jeralt had read into more than what had been said. He wondered how much Jeralt knew about him, or even how much the man might have guessed.

But there was truth in his words. Dimitri could see that.

“I admit,” he said slowly, “I have certain goals that I must accomplish. But the responsibility is mine to bear; I would never involve her in anything that might bring her harm. At least… that has been my way of thinking.”

But Jeralt had a point. The closer Dimitri and Byleth became, the harder it would be to separate their problems as individual. If she were in any sort of trouble, would he not aid her in a heartbeat, and vice versa? She already knew of his reason for enrolling at the academy; did she not already have a personal stake in Dimitri’s future, even before her feelings came to light?

Perhaps Jeralt was only thinking in terms of the most cutthroat of politics, but the truth of Dimitri’s future was darker than that. Before meeting Byleth, he had given no thought to his fate once his revenge was achieved; that had been all that mattered for so long. Thanks to her, his existence was no longer defined solely by the wishes of the dead. Their grasp was still a solid one, their voices as real and demanding as they had ever been, but there was more to his future than their shadow now.

Perhaps he didn’t have to sacrifice everything—perhaps he could have both.

But if he couldn’t—

“If it came to that... Perhaps this is just the naivete of a romantic speaking, but I would do whatever it took to keep Byleth safe. Even if that meant I couldn’t be with her.” He held Jeralt’s gaze. “You have my word on that.”

Jeralt sighed again, an irritated noise as he scratched the back of his head. “You’re too young to be talkin’ like that,” he muttered. “I'm not asking you to choose between your friends and your dreams. I’m just saying you’re in a unique position and you need to level the playing field when you involve other people. Make sure they don’t rush into anything blind. Managing that kind of awareness responsibly is how a leader works—a successful one, anyway.”

He paused, and then he gathered up his reins. “I’ve preached enough. Just make sure your choices are in line with what you actually believe, kid. It sounds like you’ve got enough sense for that.”

He nudged his horse forward and a moment later Dimitri did the same, turning those words over. When his thoughtful silence stretched on, Jeralt broke it by suddenly clapping him hard on the back and nearly knocking him from the saddle.

“Hey. Don’t overthink it.” The man gave him another one of his rare smiles. “I intend to stick around for a long time, anyway. If I think you’re steering Byleth wrong, trust me: you’ll know.”

That brought a small smile to Dimitri’s face, but his grateful tone was more telling. “I’m glad to hear that, Captain.”

* * *

“You’re alive.”

His voice sounds far away, even to himself—distant, muffled, as if this is yet another dream. It must be—she looks exactly the way he remembers her, not a day older. At any moment she’ll disappear, slipping through his hands like smoke as he fails to protect her, again—

_Again and again and again—_

But Byleth draws closer and her touch, her scent, are so painfully familiar and real that he can’t breathe.

“I am. I promise.” Her smile is unsteady and her eyes say what her words don’t: she’s shocked, confused, scared. He can’t stand seeing it on her face and despite everything—despite five years of despair and self-loathing and forgetting everything that ever made him feel anything other than pain and rage—the impulse is there to pull her to him, to hold her and comfort her and be the support she needs until she pulls herself back up as she always does—

“I’ve never lied to you before, have I?”

It’s a twist of the knife that he’s carried in his chest for years.

The flames of anger catch once more, feeding on the mind-numbing sting of betrayal that’s driven him for so long, too long for him to distinguish her broken promise from Edelgard’s indifference because it’s all the same in the end—it’s a loved one leaving him, tossing aside the past as if it’s nothing to her when it has always been _everything_ to him—

Dimitri doesn’t realize he’s speaking until his voice rises.

“Why didn’t you keep your promise that day? Why didn’t you stay near me?”

In his dreams he always apologized, always begged her forgiveness for not being enough, but those tears have long since dried and that helplessness has twisted into frustration, frustration into anger because it’s so much easier to bear.

_“Why did you choose her over me?”_

Byleth has no answer, but he didn’t expect one. He’s had too much time to exhaust possibilities and they all hurt just the same. In the end she left, and he failed her when it mattered most, just like he failed everyone else.

But she doesn’t leave now. She follows—talking, asking, apologizing, reassuring, arguing—and it’s so strange to have a conversation again, one that isn’t just the dead’s howls of pain and rage and demands. For the first time in so long, Dimitri feels a touch of clarity in his tangle of thoughts—and for the first time in so long, he listens to his heart, and no one else.

“Five years… is a long time, Byleth. People change.”

He’s never been good at lying, but the look on her face nearly breaks him all over again and he knows he’s put the seed of doubt there. He hopes that’s enough.

It isn’t.

“I’m coming with you.”

He doesn’t stop her—he knows he can’t—but the small flicker of warmth that her return ignited deep inside him is purposefully stomped out, then and there.

He won’t give her anything. He _can’t._

* * *

Byleth has always quieted the voices.

The first time she saw what he could do, what he _was_ , on a bloody battlefield one rainy night, there was no disgust on her face, no fear, no judgment. She didn’t recoil; she reached for him. She protected him. She soothed something in him that he didn’t even know _could_ be soothed, satiating his rage with simple acceptance rather than blood.

The same thing happened after Remire, and then the Holy Tomb. In those tense few weeks before he lost her, he awoke thrashing and sweating more times than he could count and she was always there, warm and calming and holding him until the vengeful screams were just whispers.

He never told her. He couldn’t hide his night terrors from her and he shared the truth of his past with her early on, but the matter of the lingering dead was a secret he always kept close to his heart—even when he realized his feelings went beyond mere infatuation. Even when she told him about Sothis.

Byleth doesn’t silence them like she used to but there’s always a ripple, a tremor, a dip in the noise at her touch and voice and gaze.

She still has an effect and that terrifies him. He’s come so far, killed so many, lost so much for the sake of the dead that follow him and if they fall silent now, what then? What of his resolve? How will he know they are finally at peace if he can’t hear them?

Or, if she can banish them so easily without even being aware of it, it’s possible they were never real to begin with.

It’s possible he’s a madman and so many people have suffered for nothing.

It’s yet another reason to push her away, albeit a more selfish one.

Willful ignorance is just one more on his long list of sins.

* * *

She says that they should march for Fhirdiad. In his heart of hearts he knows she’s right—she’s doing what he’s always admired about her, balancing a level head with her sense of justice.

In comparison he’s little better than Edelgard—perhaps no better—as he seeks blood for blood, lives for his ideals, shifting the world into simple shades of black and white.

The contrast is stark enough that he finds it in himself to aggressively try reasoning with her— _Rhea entrusted the Church to you_ —but despite the conflict on her face, she doesn’t give.

In the end he overrules her, and even then she follows.

* * *

“If you stand in my way, I _will_ strike you down.”

He sees the hurt in her eyes, the stubborn disbelief. Her small shoulders tense as if she might lash out at him and for an instant he hopes she does, that she’ll finally tap into the frustration that’s been building for months now. He wants to see her heartache harden into anger. He wants her to fight back with the strength he knows she has. He wants her to cast him aside and rid herself of this weakness and move on.

She does none of these things.

She only looks away and for a painful instant she’s a mirror image of her late father, a flat mouth and distant eyes hiding her thoughts until she reminds him that she wasn’t born yesterday.

“If that happens, expect me to fight back.”

He sneers, but the lukewarm sensation settling in his chest is the closest thing to satisfaction that he’s felt in a long time.

* * *

“Do you regret killing them?”

The question should anger him, but it doesn’t. The frigid pit in his gut just seems to grow a little wider, a little deeper, and he resents this void left behind by his rage, momentarily quelled for the first time in so long. Perhaps it’s because she’s the one asking; maybe finding Dedue alive has shaken him more than he realized; maybe the voices echoing in his skull are right and he’s weak to second-guess himself like this.

Does he regret it?

Yes. He regrets so much.

He can’t bring himself to hate the sympathy in her voice.

* * *

A touch to his shoulder jolts Dimitri awake with a start.

He moves on reflex—an instinct branded into him by endless nights of lethal cold and little rest, when everyone and everything was a threat and an instant could mean the difference between his miserable life and a pathetic death.

His hands aren’t gentle anymore and he catches an arm in an iron grip, the speed and the pain earning a startled gasp that says he has the advantage of surprise (not that he needs it at this range; this close, he always wins, always shatters, always kills) and he drags the offender to the ground as easily as he breathes an angry hiss, as effortlessly as he slides _her_ dagger from his belt to press its glinting edge to an exposed throat—

Except there’s already an arm up between them, thrown against his own neck to force his head back. A smaller body kicks hard off the ground to slam up into his, not as strong as him but not weak, either, and he’s only on one knee which isn’t enough to keep his balance. Dimitri hits the dirt like deadweight but his free hand snaps out, closing hard around an ankle this time to drag it towards him, underneath him as he lunges forward and reaches for the throat but a booted heel catches his shoulder, trying to hold him back—

_“Your Highness!”_

The shout breaks through the swarm of voices in his ears—voices that have melted into a furious hum that makes his head throb and his hands shake—and Dimitri goes fearfully still.

Ingrid’s face drifts into focus. Concern shadows her features but her body is tensed, poised to continue fighting back.

In another life he would feel proud of her.

He releases her and is on his feet in the same instant, sheathing the dagger as he eyes her. His cloak falls in place around his frame and hides the tremble in his arms, the misplaced adrenaline coursing through them.

“What do you want?”

Ingrid also stands, her voice level and her gaze holding his despite how shaken she looks. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to lash out. You startled me—”

“ _What_ do you want?” he repeats heatedly.

She seems to gather herself before speaking. “I came to ask that you reconsider prioritizing Enbarr.” Dimitri’s face darkens; she quickly explains, “I’m afraid Lord Rodrigue only touched on the current state of Fhirdiad. Going by the Margrave’s recent reports, his scouts determined that the—”

Dimitri brushes past her. “You have your orders.”

“But—”

“If you disagree, then _go_. See how far your patriotism carries you.”

Her hand on his shoulder isn’t anywhere near strong enough to stop him, but the boldness of the gesture is a force on its own. His surprise betrays him and he stops, glaring down at her.

Perhaps Byleth has rubbed off on her or Ingrid’s finally reevaluating her place in the grand scheme of things, but she holds the look with a shade of defiance that she once wouldn’t have dared use against him.

“This is no longer about loyalty,” she replies steadily. “It’s about doing the right thing and salvaging what lives we still can.” When Dimitri looks away, she presses, “Make no mistake, Your Highness—I will follow wherever you lead. But you told me there’s no glory or joy in self-sacrifice. How much emptier will you feel, then, with the weight of your own people on your shoulders when all is said and done?”

“Do _not_ talk down to me—”

“I would never.” Her eyes are painfully earnest, her words still calm and collected. “But I don’t want you to achieve victory at the cost of your ideals. Please, Your Highness, consider—what will you have left after this?”

Nothing.

She isn’t telling him anything he hasn’t already accepted.

It’s just more naive drivel from someone who doesn’t understand. _No one_ understands. They would all have him forgive and forget just because it’s simpler, because it’s the easy excuse of _letting go_.

“If it’s hollow ideology you seek, perhaps you would be better off joining the Empire.” His tone is frigid. “I will not stop you. Or I could break your neck now and save us both some time.”

Ingrid’s hand falls away. The resolve on her face flickers, that confidence stripped from her like a frail cloth. There’s no fear in her eyes, only disappointment.

It’s the look he wants to see on Byleth’s face: reluctant surrender, the acknowledgement that she isn’t reaching him. The death of that last stubborn light of hope.

“Do not question me again,” he intones shortly.

Ingrid doesn’t follow him, but her voice does.

“The whole time you were missing, I used to think that if Byleth were still alive, she might be able to do what the rest of us couldn’t—I thought she could find you.”

When he says nothing, she sighs briefly, quietly. “For some reason, I still do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh we crossed 100+ subs to this thing shortly after the last update?? thank you all for being committed to this emotional mess along with me, your kudos and hits and kind comments really inspire me to do my best with this monstrosity and I appreciate it ;; <3


	9. Chapter 9

“She died right after you were born. She wasn’t able to spend much time with you.”

Byleth’s eyes lingered on the gravestone, an unfamiliar feeling buzzing through her body. She felt… uneasy, almost antsy, and her fists tightened and loosened at her sides in a distracted, uneven rhythm. At the same time, Jeralt’s low voice was soothing, and hearing these details for the first time was oddly comforting. Relieving, even, as if they were filling in a hole in her life that she hadn’t even realized she’d been carrying.

“But she loved you with all her heart,” he said with a soft smile. “That’s the truest thing I know. Never forget it.”

He reached into his coat and withdrew a small leather pouch. Byleth didn’t recognize it. She watched curiously as he removed the bundled handkerchief inside it, which was carefully folded back to reveal a small silver ring.

“This ring is the only keepsake I have of her. In time, it will be yours.”

She blinked in surprise, and then picked it up with the same degree of care to examine it. She had never cared to wear much jewelry, but this one struck her as a lovely piece—elegant, but not gaudy. It felt warm against her fingertips.

“One day, I hope you’ll give this ring to someone you love as well as I love her.”

Byleth looked up at Jeralt, and then back at the ring. She set it down in his hand and watched as he returned it to the hidden pocket over his heart.

“When did you know you wanted to marry her?” she wondered. “Or—how did you know?”

He gave a low grunt of a laugh. “I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I decided, but I did sit on it for a while. As for how… well, one day I realized I wanted to go on being with her—forever. I wanted to keep coming home to her. I wanted to make her happy, and for some reason she decided I was the best person to do that.”

He smiled wistfully down at the grave, as if sharing a joke with it. “Love’s not really something I can teach you, kid. I can try to tell you what it’s like, and I can chase off the brats who aren’t good enough for you—” Now he turned his smile to her. “—but in the end it’s something you learn the ups and downs for yourself.”

Byleth considered that for a moment. “...You’ve chased people away?”

“If you’re just asking now, then I did a good job.” He laughed as she crossed her arms. “Nah, you’ve done good scaring off the bad ones yourself. And… well, His Highness hasn’t given me a reason. Yet.”

“Does that mean you like him?”

Jeralt made a noncommittal noise in his throat. “I don’t dislike him.”

Byleth shook her head with a quiet laugh. “It matters to me, you know. What you think of him.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “That so?”

She nodded. Was that strange?

Jeralt was thoughtfully silent for a couple beats before appearing to shake it off. “Well. At any rate…” He cupped her face in one large hand, smiling down at her in a rare display of direct affection. “Don't go running off on me anytime soon. Just know that I trust you to do what’s best for yourself, but I’m here if you need me.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’ll always support you. Got it?”

She smiled and gave his wrist a grateful squeeze. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

* * *

The ring glints in the moonlight as Byleth rotates it in her fingers. She rests her arm on her knee and tilts her head back, lining the tiny circle up with the window in the cathedral’s ceiling. Her quiet sigh goes unheard in the empty room.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

As deep as she is in her thoughts, the voice startles her and she jumps hard enough that the ring slips. It hits the seat of the pew and rolls over the edge; before she can dive after it, it’s caught in a gloved fist.

She looks up at Rodrigue, who smiles apologetically. “Ah, forgive me, Byleth. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“It’s okay. I was… distracted.”

He glances at the ring before offering it to her. “It’s quite lovely,” he observes.

Byleth takes it back and returns it to the secure pouch on her belt. “It was my mother’s.”

“Ah. I see.” Rodrigue nods sagely, as if that explains everything. He looks toward the front of the room. “He isn’t here tonight, I take it?”

“No.” It’s becoming a more frequent occurrence lately and she isn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps Dimitri is simply avoiding her.

“Perhaps you would permit me to join you, then?” he asks. When she nods, he sits down on her left and she drops her feet to the floor. Neither of them speaks for a long moment, but Byleth waits patiently for whatever it is he has to say.

When Rodrigue does finally speak, it’s not what she expects.

“I keep recalling my eldest son… He was quite gifted. In fact, he was appointed a knight at the age of fifteen.” He laces his fingers together in his lap, the look on his face distant. “I still vividly remember the day he was granted a sword from His Majesty.”

Byleth searches her memory. “Your son… isn’t he…”

“Dead.” His blunt answer is a steady one. “He was killed nine years ago in Duscur. All that returned of him that day were his sword and his armor.”

She frowns to herself. Is there anyone in Faerghus who _hasn’t_ suffered from that tragedy?

“After it happened,” Rodrigue goes on slowly, “I said something horrible to Felix. He’s hated me ever since… and I don’t blame him.”

Byleth says nothing, unsure if there’s anything _to_ say. She can’t imagine something as simple as words having the power to turn family against each other like that. She knows they can hurt—Dimitri has proven that again and again lately—but holding such a deep and long-lasting grudge…

Rodrigue draws in a breath, his face looking pinched. “No matter how much you grieve, the dead will never return. No magic in the world can bring them back. That’s why their memory clings to the living like a curse.” His expression turns solemn as he shakes his head. “The more they were loved, the tighter their hold, and the more suffering they cause…”

_No magic in the world._

Not even the magic of a goddess.

Byleth stares down at her knees, trying to take comfort in Rodrigue’s grim certainty. There hasn’t been a day since her father’s death that she didn’t wonder if she could have done something differently, or blame herself for acting too hastily.

If she had just rewound time a little further…

If she had thought it through more carefully, instead of just lashing out at the problem in front of her…

But she didn’t. Even the Goddess has her limits; the power of time isn’t endless, and Byleth’s mastery over it isn’t perfect. Even now, it exhausts her, and she can usually only trigger it once per battle, twice if she’s lucky.

After Jeralt—after falling into slumber five years ago—the power feels like both a gift and a curse. If she uses it to save a life, she’s done something good; if she fails, she’s failed twice. In truth, bearing that power gives her more anxiety than comfort these days.

“I fear I am not a strong enough man to scold His Highness for his foolishness,” Rodrigue remarks. He suddenly sounds tired.

Byleth gives a faint nod. “I know how you feel.”

“Since this war began, we’ve seen countless generals, soldiers, and citizens die. It never gets easier.” He pauses for a few beats, and then turns to her with a searching look. “Byleth… I entrust the young prince, and the future of Faerghus, to you.”

Those words send a chill through her veins. They’re far too similar in spirit to what Jeralt said to her shortly before his death. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “This is unexpected.”

Rodrigue blinks at her, and then chuckles under his breath. “I suppose that was a dramatic way of putting it. My apologies.” He looks away. “You should know that I have no intention of insisting that you take back Fhirdiad. All I ask is that you continue to rein in Dimitri’s manic desire for revenge.”

She sighs quietly, rubbing her arm. “I’m not sure I can promise that. I haven’t done very well so far.”

“But he’s here. He’s alive,” he points out gently. “That is no small feat, and I’m willing to believe it isn’t entirely to his credit.” He stares ahead again with a sad smile. “I don’t believe in lost causes, Byleth. And I certainly don’t think he’s beyond our reach. All the same… you can’t force a person to change, or tell him what to believe.”

He sounds so sure and hopeful. Byleth wishes she had half that much confidence in herself.

She wants to believe him, but she still feels lost. The doubt that’s been eating at her finally catches up and she wonders, almost rhetorically,

“Then… what should I do?”

“Protect him. Be there for him.” His answer sounds so natural, so casually simple. “He has to find his path himself. Only he can decide what it is he fights for. All we can do is support him, and make sure he has that opportunity.”

Byleth hums thoughtfully. At her side, her thumb idly strokes the pouch containing her ring.

“And when the time comes,” he adds, “listen to what he has to say. Sometimes, when we’re hurting, we need others who understand us—not to fix things for us, and not always to give advice, but just to listen. Lending an ear or a hand can be all a person really needs, deep down.”

She wants to believe such a time will come, but she’s not sure what to have faith in anymore. Studying Rodrigue’s calm face, however, she finds she can believe in one thing, if nothing else: that the man before her wants the best for Dimitri, just as much as she does.

Slowly, grimly, she smiles. “As much as he’s hurting, it might take more than one person to help him through it. I’m counting on you to be there, too.”

Rodrigue laughs heartily. “Indeed, I suppose that’s only fair. I’ve asked a lot of you tonight, haven’t I?” He nods with a low hum. “Very well. You have my word that I’ll give my all to be there when His Highness needs me, however he needs me.”

* * *

“No,” Byleth repeats.

It feels like all eyes in the war room are on her. Perhaps they are; there aren’t that many people present, but she doesn’t care to count. The only face she’s interested in is the one staring up at her in a blend of shock and frustration.

“But—please! I’ve helped with healing the soldiers in the infirmary. I promise, I can help!”

Byleth studies the young girl—Fleche—with an impassive expression. “I believe you. Which is why you can continue to make yourself useful in the infirmary.”

Fleche bites her lip, her small shoulders tense. “But I—”

“How do you even know the man you’re looking for will be in this battle?” Byleth presses. “If he isn’t, you risk dying out there for nothing.” She pauses, the thin line of her mouth softening slightly. “I understand how you feel. Believe me. But I also—”

“No, you _don’t!_ ” Tears fill the girl’s eyes as she turns sharply away and nearly runs from the room.

Byleth sighs and crosses her arms. “Was that harsh?” she wonders.

In the corner of her eye, Ingrid shifts uncomfortably. “You have every right to be suspicious,” she reasons, without answering the question.

“But she _is_ just a child,” Gilbert points out from his seat.

“A child we found within the Adrestian border, and who had trouble answering our questions.” Who _still_ isn’t being completely forthright with them, Byleth’s sure. “I don’t think it was wrong to take her in, but it’s shortsighted to assume she’s harmless.” Are they not having this conversation inside Garreg Mach, a literal battle school for children?

She sighs again, more quietly. Perhaps she _is_ being a bit paranoid. Even Dimitri bared his softheartedness by allowing Fleche to come along. The girl’s already being monitored, as well, so it’s not as though she’s had free reign in the two weeks she’s been with them. Even so, Byleth’s gut is urging her to be wary and it has yet to steer her wrong.

She glances at her allies. “Should I… go apologize?”

“I think it’s best to just leave her be for now,” Ingrid replies. “After all she says she’s been through, her emotions must be in a confusing place right now.”

“Alright. But I stand by what I said. I don’t want her coming along.” She looks at Gilbert, who hums.

“I’ll make sure word gets around the troops that she isn’t permitted to leave the monastery.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

Dimitri is silent again tonight.

For a while Byleth watches him from her usual pew, and then from a few feet away. When she reaches out and brushes her fingertips over his back, he still doesn’t react. She prefers to think he just doesn’t feel it through his armor.

“I don’t think I’ve asked for much.” Her quiet voice is loud in the heavy silence. “But I’m going to ask a favor from you.”

Still no reaction.

“Don’t die.”

Her fingers fist in his cape.

“ _Don’t die_ , Dimitri.”

She holds on a little longer, and then her hand loosens. Those words are probably enough. She’s never had to say much for him to understand her, after all.

Byleth turns away.

A firm grip on her arm stops her.

She turns back to find Dimitri staring at the floor. It’s too dark to read his face.

“Don’t die,” he echoes softly. His voice is rasping—worn down, maybe, by all the ranting and rambling he’s done ever since plans were made to clash at Gronder Field. He even talks to his ghosts during the day now, not caring who hears, although the nights are still worse.

Byleth watches him for a long moment. Then she steps closer and reaches for his face.

“Don’t,” he grunts, making her pause, but he sounds tired, not angry. When she keeps reaching, he doesn’t try to dissuade her again.

His skin is still cold. She brushes some hair back from his face. Tucks it behind his ear. Her palm settles against his cheek but he still doesn’t look at her.

“How about we both agree to come back alive?” she proposes.

His eye narrows as he stares past her shoulder. “Like before?” If he’s aiming for sarcasm or bitterness, he fails.

“I suppose. Neither of us died then.”

Dimitri exhales heavily. Even his breath feels chilled.

Byleth’s gaze falls to his chest. They’ll only be marching out tomorrow, but tonight feels a lot like it did back then—the quiet, tense eve of what sounds like a hopeless battle. And yet, at the same time it couldn’t feel more different.

She doubts she’ll get any sort of promise out of him, but at least she’s said her piece. When she retreats this time, he doesn’t stop her, but she’s halfway to her pew when he speaks again.

“You’ve been here every night.” There’s no emotion one way or the other in his observation.

Byleth turns back. “So have you.”

Dimitri looks at her briefly, and then away again.

“Do you want me to leave?” she wonders. It seems a little late to be asking that now.

“You should.” That isn’t an answer.

She watches him, but as usual he gives nothing away.

“Do you want to sit with me? Just this once?”

He remains still.

“You need to conserve your strength. They understand that, don’t they?”

Again, Dimitri’s expression hardens at the mention of his ghosts as though he’s anticipating ridicule. It doesn’t come, of course, and after a moment he exhales again, his perpetual frown softening ever so slightly.

“It’s alright to be tired,” she says gently. “You’re only human.”

He huffs humorlessly. “If you still think me human, you’re the only one.”

“What do _you_ think?”

Dimitri hesitates, as though the question catches him off guard. “I know what I am. You are merely clinging to the hope of the past.”

“Is that so wrong?” It’s an honest question.

Leather creaks as his fists clench. “If you die for nothing, it is a waste.”

Byleth takes a moment to really consider that. “I don’t know. I would think dying for someone I care about is one of the better ways to go.” If her death made a difference—if she could die with a smile on her face like her father—then at least it would mean something, wouldn’t it? It’s certainly a better thing to hope for than the fate she once imagined for herself, an inevitable death on the battlefield when she eventually grows too old or complacent.

With Rodrigue’s recent words in mind, she shrugs lightly. “That sounds less painful than knowing I’m only alive because I turned my back on what I believe in.”

It’s hard to tell what flickers over Dimitri’s stiff expression: skepticism, surprise, disdain. Maybe all three, maybe none of those.

His gruff tone is just as unreadable. “And what is it you believe in?”

Byleth considers that, as well. Why is she still here? Not just in the cathedral every night—but the monastery? The army? Why is she fighting so much and risking her life in increasingly hopeless odds?

Before meeting Dimitri, she would have had no answer. At best, she would only have reasoned that she didn’t know any other way to live.

Now she finds the answer is an obvious one.

“You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look I love Azure Moon but the setup for the Fleche plot annoys me to no end so I just really wanted to fix it lmao


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh CW: child death for this chapter, I guess? Does that need to be mentioned?
> 
> ….It’s Fleche. Fleche dies. That shouldn’t be a spoiler so I’ll be totally transparent.
> 
> Also CW: death in general, because this is Gronder.

He’s bleeding heavily.

Byleth noticed the arrow in his shoulder before he tore it out, the axe that clipped his hip and the sword that grazed his thigh, but she doesn’t remember this much blood. It’s likely that most of it isn’t his, but there’s no mistaking the nicks and slashes that have cut through to his skin.

Dimitri moves like he doesn’t notice and that, too, is likely. His gaze has been fixed forward ever since stepping onto the battlefield and it’s been all Byleth can do to keep up with him, following the bloody path he cuts through Gronder Field and anyone bold enough to stand in his way.

It’s chaos, to put it mildly, and chaos puts Byleth on edge much more than it used to. People will die today and there’s only so much she can do to stop it. She can’t save everyone.

As their forces split off into the planned formations, she can only pray for the best. While planning their strategy she didn’t even try to incorporate Dimitri, knowing full well he would charge ahead in a blind rage. She compensated for his predictability by assuring Rodrigue and herself would stay close to him as the most readily available healers, allowing Mercedes and Flayn to oversee different areas along with the medics under their command. For all intents and purposes, it’s going well.

When Dimitri pauses to wrest his lance from an impaled corpse, Byleth slides in beside him to quickly heal what she can. There’s no word of thanks but at this point she’s not expecting it.

They push onward. Dimitri is a force all on his own and it’s as though he saved the worst of his brutality for this day: his pace is barely interrupted as he strikes down enemy after enemy, barely needing Byleth’s assistance as much as she tries to provide it. If she loses sight of him she need only follow the screams and broken bodies. More than once she delivers a merciful killing blow to an enemy soldier as she passes, particularly if they’re in too many pieces to be saved.

The next time Dimitri stops, she takes the chance to heal him again—only to be shoved to the ground as he brushes her aside. She looks up as he roars and breaks into a run, striking down soldier after soldier as Areadbhar glows a bloody red in his desperate, single-minded surge for Edelgard, who calmly watches him tear towards her from her place on the crest of a low hill.

Byleth catches Rodrigue’s eye and motions for him to watch the enemy line behind them. She hurries after Dimitri, and not a moment too soon: whether by coincidence or instruction, one of the Demonic Beasts comes thundering across the plain in their direction. Braking hard and spinning on her heel, Byleth whips her sword outward and lashes the blade across the monster’s side, spewing red-black ichor through the air. It slides to a halt and rounds on her with its unnatural shriek, effectively baited. She keeps its attention as Kingdom soldiers flood in behind her, raining arrows and charging in with shields raised.

By the time it’s dead and Byleth’s allowed to shift her attention elsewhere, Dimitri and Edelgard have already made a mess of trading blows: they’re both splattered with blood and only narrowly parrying and evading one another. She’s lost her shield and he keeps pushing forward, wholly on the offense now, and before long the blade of his lance tears hard across her side and she falls. He moves to finish her but one of her soldiers lunges forward, practically throwing himself on Dimitri’s blade for all he manages to do—and then a second, a third, as her troops rally around her to defend her with their lives.

Byleth looks away, cutting her way through more Imperials. When she looks back, Edelgard has made it onto horseback and started to retreat; Dimitri has coated the earth around him with blood and bodies and screams after her.

Byleth casts a quick glance around the field for a headcount. Even with Edelgard’s withdrawal, it’s too soon to call it a victory. It’s probably best to retreat themselves while they have the opening, to recuperate and plan their next move.

“Dimitri!”

Either he doesn’t hear her or he ignores her. Edelgard’s already far beyond his reach and he looks as though he’s debating chasing after her on foot if he must. Byleth doesn’t put it past him.

“Dimitri! Stand down!”

He shoots her a dirty glare—and misses the flicker of movement behind him. He snaps something at her but Byleth doesn’t hear it because she’s focused solely on the glint of drawn steel and the small figure running straight for him.

Byleth bolts forward. “Look out!”

Either on command or an instinct of his own, Dimitri whips around with a hard slash of his lance—but he aims too high, because he wasn’t expecting the attacker to be half his height.

He misses, but Fleche doesn’t.

He doesn’t make a sound as the sword sinks into his gut—but then Byleth realizes the whole world’s gone deathly silent except for the high-pitched ringing in her ears. She chokes on her gasp as he hits his knees, as the girl yanks the blade free and he slumps over in the grass. His lance is still in his hand but he doesn’t fight back.

_Why doesn’t he fight back?_

Byleth raises a hand and rapidly concentrates a spell into it—but Fleche notices her and the manic smile on her face dies instantly.

Instead of fleeing, she raises the sword again.

Fire blasts from Byleth’s fingertips and her sword whips outward as she moves within range— _too slow_ —

A bone-chilling sound shatters the silence, alien and broken—Byleth’s own voice, tearing out of her throat in a scream.

She doesn’t remember bending time, only seeing red as her eyes blur and everything goes cold, but suddenly the world is in reverse. That awful, oppressive silence presses against her on all sides, urging her to release the flow and let time move once more but her desperate panic ignores it— _back, back_ , as far as she can go—

Her powers hit their limit and time is forcibly torn from her grasp. The sensation is very nearly a physical one and she staggers under the impact, blinking wildly as bright sunlight slams into her eyes and ambient noise pierces her ears and threatens to deafen her—

“Byleth!”

Her body snaps to attention, stumbling but not falling as a firm hand on her shoulder helps keep her on her feet. She looks up at Rodrigue, who’s bent over on his horse and watching her with open concern.

“Are you alright?”

She barely hears him over the shouts of the army thundering past them. She looks around and needs all of two seconds to realize she’s back at the very beginning of the battle.

She notices Dimitri in the lead far ahead, already leaving her behind.

Byleth turns back to Rodrigue as she struggles to find her voice. She’s not sure where to begin, how to explain, or what needs to be done. She just knows what matters.

“We need to protect him.” Her words shake but her gaze is steady, pleading. Rodrigue’s face is stoically calm. “ _Please._ ”

He straightens up in his saddle, looking ahead at the prince for a silent moment. Then he turns back to her with a grim smile.

“With my life, Byleth. I promise you that.”

They pursue Dimitri as before. As she goes, Byleth keeps looking frantically for the girl, but the armies are already so intertwined that it’s difficult to single anyone out. She must have snuck along somehow—will she be lingering in the back, then, waiting for her chance to strike? Or is she desperate enough to have leaped directly into the fray?

_Stabbed in the back by an enemy she should have caught so much sooner—just like Jeralt—_

Her fingers clutch her hilt until they ache. She puts too much force into her swings, expending unnecessary energy as she strikes down soldier after soldier in her way. There’s no time for guesses. The best she can do for now is stay close to Dimitri and stop Fleche in the act if need be.

The battle unfolds almost exactly as before. Dimitri takes the arrow to his shoulder and staggers only slightly, snarling as he tears it out and and thrusts his lance through the next approaching soldier without missing a beat.

Exactly like before.

Not long after, a slow axe swing nicks his side and he breaks the neck of his attacker as quickly and casually as swatting a fly.

All exactly like before.

_If turning back the hands of time was not enough to save his life_

She’s feeling the weight that manipulating time left on her shoulders. She’s already tiring out much faster than she should be. Her panic makes her slip up and earns her a few superficial but painful wounds.

_you must accept what came to pass was fate._

Byleth scrambles after him. She struggles to stay close but she doesn’t have his battering strength to clear soldiers away with a single swing, nor his fierce presence to draw attention and make them back away in fear. For every soldier she strikes down, three more seem to fill the space and push Dimitri farther away.

She pushes forward, mirroring his aggressive, blind drive and spurned onward by that horrible visual burned into her eyes and replaying again and again in her head.

Rodrigue blasts aside two advancing knights and Byleth hurries past, finally catching up as Dimitri’s forced to stop and topple half a dozen mounted soldiers. Again, she heals him, although her hands are shaking with exhaustion and anxiety this time. Again, he pushes her away, ignoring her attempts to warn him as he spearheads through Edelgard’s last line of defense to engage her.

“Stay with me!” she calls to Rodrigue. Together they intercept the Demonic Beast, and with Rodrigue commanding the soldiers Byleth slips around to follow Dimitri. She’s so concerned with scanning the area for Fleche that she nearly misses the flicker of color in the corner of her eye.

She leaps aside just in time. Dark magic tears up the earth where she just stood; a little ways beyond, Hubert stands poised with a patronizing smile.

Byleth curses under her breath. In her haste she didn’t consider double-checking the area Rodrigue covered previously before engaging—and she feels twice as foolish for not assuming Hubert would be somewhere near the Emperor.

With nothing else to be done, she charges at him, dodging another blast of magic and whipping the Sword of the Creator out in front of her. It’s a game of trading dodges and blows as she closes in on him—his spells only narrowly deflect her blade and she keeps forfeiting ground by backstepping, sidestepping, jumping to evade the spells he rapidly fires out. Either his magical stamina is years ahead of her own, or he’s putting his everything into stopping her specifically—

The thought makes her blood run cold and Byleth chances a glimpse in Dimitri’s direction—only to mistake the aim of Hubert’s next spell as being farther than it is. It clips her hard in the shoulder and instantly strikes half her body numb. She falls to one knee, struggling against the icy pins-and-needles sensation crawling in her skin, and the world spins as something strikes her face.

She hits her back, coughing. Her right arm is suddenly pressed sharply into the earth and Hubert appears above her, his smile now a smirk as he grinds his heel into her wrist.

“I knew I should have disposed of you long ago.”

Byleth tries to reach for the knife on her hip, but she can barely feel her free hand and it only twitches in response. With a condescending snort Hubert holds one palm over her head, magical energy swirling around his fingers. He opens his mouth to say something else snide, only to look up sharply as a cry pierces the air. Byleth cranes her neck back to follow his gaze—just in time to see Edelgard stagger back from Dimitri, a darker shade of scarlet staining her crimson robes once more.

In a blink and a flash of light Hubert is gone, reappearing beside Edelgard to block the swing of Dimitri’s lance with a dark spell suspended between both hands. The force sends Hubert to the ground but he’s bought Edelgard enough time to react and she lunges for Dimitri, axe raised.

Byleth rolls onto her stomach, wincing as the left side of her body continues to throb dully. She starts crawling forward with her good arm, digging her elbow into the earth and dragging herself forward a few inches, and then repeating, sparing a glance every now and then to check her flank.

Within moments Edelgard retreats again, teleported away this time by her vassal’s magic. Dimitri’s snarl is audible from here—but to Byleth’s relief Rodrigue rides towards him. Unsurprisingly, he’s thinking along the same lines she did previously.

“Your Highness! We have to retreat to the Great Bridge of Myrddin!”

Dimitri says something Byleth doesn’t catch, then shouts, “The rest of you, keep fighting!”

“I’m so sorry… but we can’t do that. I—” Rodrigue notices Byleth, does a double take, and then quickly redirects his horse towards her to dismount and crouch beside her. “Byleth—”

“No! Dimitri—you have to—”

He plants a firm hand between her shoulder blades and she immediately feels the trickle of Recovery magic in her numb limbs. He calls back, “Your Highness, I understand how you feel, but the Imperial army is closing in!”

Dimitri’s blood-splattered face darkens. “I’ll kill _all of them!_ No matter how many hundreds, or _thousands_ of them there are!”

Byleth sees the shadow behind him—as does Rodrigue.

“ _Dimitri! Run!_ ”

Byleth’s shriek catches Dimitri’s attention, but too late.

It’s worse watching it like this: up close, where she can see his face shift from seething hatred to cold surprise, his body locking up with the shock of pain as he falls to his knees. Again.

 _“Your Highness!”_ Rodrigue leaps to his feet. Byleth curses and fights the lingering numbness and makes it onto all fours, and then climbs unsteadily upright to follow him. She almost falls with her first step forward, but a high, unhinged laugh grates on her ears and stirs a rage in her chest—the kind she hasn’t felt in five years—and she stumbles on even as her joints scream in protest.

Too slow.

Again.

She’s too slow to do anything but watch as Rodrigue pulls ahead, as the girl rips her blade from Dimitri’s back to plunge it in again—as Rodrigue dives for her, either afraid of striking Dimitri with his magic or too fatigued to use it—as his body shudders and he goes still.

Byleth’s clumsy shuffling breaks into a wobbling run. Her sword falls from her stiff fingers, suddenly too heavy to hold.

“By-Byleth… Do it now!”

She draws her dagger. Fleche’s eyes are wide and fearful as Byleth slams into her, tackling her to the ground. It’s almost too easy, even in her current weakened state: she drives the blade between the girl’s ribs down to the hilt with what feels like no effort. There’s a scream, a shuddering breath, but Byleth’s already forgotten about her, rolling away to turn her attention to Rodrigue—and the prince clinging to him.

The years of wrath and disdain carved into Dimitri’s face are gone in a terrible instant. There’s only remorse and fear and his voice cracks— _breaks_ —with them as he screams.

_“Rodrigue!”_

* * *

She stands in the rain for a long time.

The water is warm with the encroaching summer heat, but even as it soaks into her hair and clothes and coats her skin, it can’t even begin to touch the chill in her bones.

Even now, the scents of blood and earth still linger in her nose. She’s been listening to the heavy patter of rain for so long that she barely hears it anymore; she can almost believe she’s alone in the world, staring up at a grey sky that’s for her and her alone.

It’s eerily similar to that day.

She wonders what Sothis would say. Scold her for dwelling on it? Comfort her for having tried her best? Or maybe she would say something about meddling with fate—that in her desperate bid to save one life, the most she could hope to do was trade it for another in the end.

It doesn’t matter, she supposes. Words can justify or condemn her choices, but they can’t change the past.

When she hears heavy footsteps, she doesn’t have to look to know whom they belong to.

The steps pause briefly, and then continue. Byleth’s legs move of their own accord, walking her out into the middle of the road and turning her around.

Dimitri is as soaked as she is. He carries nothing but his lance at his side but she knows where he’s going with one glance at his hollow expression.

She doesn’t voice her question. He reads it in her face.

“This doesn’t concern you.”

There’s no bite in his tone. There’s barely any life in it at all. He sounds tired, empty, as if the words are spoken on reflex rather than will.

“It does.” She likewise lacks any fight in her. Her words are simple, matter-of-fact.

“Get out of my way. Now.”

“You’re going to Enbarr, aren’t you?”

Dimitri looks away.

“Do you really think that will appease the dead?”

“ _Silence,_ ” he hisses. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Death is the end. No matter how much lingering regret a person has, after death, they are powerless. They cannot even wish for revenge, much less seek it out.” He exhales sharply, his eye distant. “Hatred. Regret. Those burdens fall on the shoulders of those who are left behind.”

His lance trembles in his grip as his voice rises. “And so I _must_ continue down this path! I already told you as much!” Something like sorrow twists his features but he holds her gaze, as if pleading with her to understand. “It is far too late to stop.”

Byleth doesn’t give. “You’re wrong.”

A harsh smirk slides onto his face. “Do not waste your breath with some _nonsense_ about how I should _move on_ with my life for their sake.” Another sharp breath. His voice softens, flattens. “That is merely the logic of the living. It’s meaningless.”

She watches him without speaking. Just listening.

“Those who died with lingering regret… They will not loose their hold on me so easily.” Dimitri’s barely audible above the rain now. He tilts his head back, the last of the tension leaving his shoulders as water streams down his face, his armor. He looks… spent. Despite his words, nothing in his tone or face or posture reflects that raging desire like they once did. Despite his intention, there’s no sign that it’s what he _wants_.

It’s as though all his anger has finally burned out to expose what it’s probably always been underneath: grief, exhaustion, and the desperate desire to do what’s right.

“But you seem to have all the answers.” The plea in his face trickles into his voice. He sounds so tired. So lost. “So tell me, Byleth. Please, tell me… How do I silence their desperate pleas? How do I… How do I save them?” He lets out a long, quivering breath. Whatever defenses he has left—whatever strength he’s still using to stand tall—are rapidly deteriorating. “Ever since that day nine years ago… I have lived only to avenge the fallen. Even my time at the Officers Academy was all so that I could secure my revenge and clear away the regret of the dead. It was the only thing that kept me alive… My only reason to keep moving forward…”

His head looks heavy as it tilts forward, dropping his gaze to the ground. “And then I met you,” he murmurs. “You… who made me feel like I was more than just a means to an end. For the first time in so long, I was free to love someone without the shadow of revenge or obligation hanging over me.” His short sigh is a rasping one, perhaps an attempt at a dry laugh. “A better man would have trusted you sooner, and found a better path at your side. But… I am a selfish man, Byleth. I used you as an excuse to give in to my beast entirely after I lost you. And then I repaid your devotion with cruelty and arrogance, because I thought I knew better.”

He takes a moment to speak again. His voice sounds thick. “After failing everyone I ever cared for, I… I don’t know how to live anymore. I don’t know what to do.”

That suffocating feeling is in Byleth’s chest again, squeezing her throat and pricking at her eyes as she realizes: this truly is Dimitri at his lowest point. As broken as he was before, he always had the dead and his obligation to them holding the pieces together, however deeply their jagged edges cut into him all the while. Even with his friends and Byleth around him, he was bleeding, and years of tormented isolation finally bled him dry.

Then Rodrigue’s death shattered the husk that remained, and now Byleth is looking at what’s left.

She could tell him any number of the things she’s wanted to get through to him for months now—that _she’s_ still here, his friends and allies are still here, the dead are gone no matter how far he goes to honor their memory—but looking at him now, she realizes that’s not what he needs to hear. A person’s life should include others, certainly, but it shouldn’t revolve around them. This isn’t about her or Dimitri’s friends or the dead.

It’s about him.

 _His_ life, and how he chooses to live it. For himself.

Byleth’s throat is almost too tight to get the words out. She’s tired, heartbroken for him, and the worst part is that she knows he’s in an even worse place, and has been for far too long.

She manages, but her voice cracks on the edge of a quiet sob.

“You need to forgive yourself.”

Dimitri turns to stare at her—but without any heat or skepticism in the look. He searches her face and she can see his mind working.

“But then who—or what—should I live for?”

She takes a small step closer. He doesn’t recoil.

This time, her words come out strong. “Live for what you believe in.”

“What I believe in…” His gaze drops. “Rodrigue said the same thing. And even Jeralt… But is it possible?” He turns his free hand over, watching the rain pool and overflow in his palm. “I am a murderous monster. My hands are stained red. Could one such as I truly hope for such a life? As the sole survivor of that day, do I… do I have the _right_ to live for myself?”

Byleth steps forward again, once more, until she stands before him. His stare is still downcast, but she has no words left for him—none, at least, that wouldn’t be _telling_ him what to do, and that’s not why she’s here. His question is one that only he can answer.

Instead, she does the only thing she can do: she offers him her hand.

For a breathless moment Dimitri doesn’t react. Only the rain around them continues to move.

Then, slowly, as if he’s not entirely certain she’s really there, he places his hand in hers. When her fingers close around him, she feels a subtle jolt in his arm as he breathes in sharply. He reciprocates the gentle grip so quickly that it seems like reflex.

“Your hands are so warm…” His brow furrows. He meets her eyes and his own is the clearest she’s seen it in so long. “Have they always been?”

Byleth wonders if he can see the tears spilling from her eyes or if the rain hides them. Her lips feel heavy as they edge cautiously towards a smile.

His lance clatters to the ground. He reaches for her face but stops just short, studying her with the look of someone on the bleary border between dreaming and waking.

“Byleth…”

She tightens her hold on his hand.

“You know you don’t have to ask,” she chokes out around her struggling smile.

His palm cradles her jaw. Even with the leather glove between them, she can feel the faint heat and buzz of his skin beneath and it’s the most intense, intimate thing she’s ever felt. He cautiously strokes her cheek and she thinks her knees might give out where she stands.

Her eyes flutter closed with a small hiccup. Dimitri’s hand slips behind her head and suddenly he’s pulled her to him, holding her with the same conscious care that he never forgot. She returns the embrace as both their dams finally break.

She’s not sure when they hit their knees, or how long they stay huddled together there in the downpour. She only cares about his desperate grip and his quiet sobbing against her shoulder, the muffled apologies that she soothes away by stroking his hair and refusing to let go of him.

* * *

Neither of them says a word on the way to her room. Dimitri lets her guide him by the hand, across the grounds and up the small staircase to her doorway without a single soul being the wiser this late at night.

Byleth closes the door behind them, muffling the rainfall, and the silence feels odd after standing in it for so long.

She addresses him first and starts to remove his soaked armor. She doesn’t explain and he doesn’t ask; there’s no need for it. The sopping cloak falls away, and then the wet plates and undershirt. She moves away to let him take off his boots and pants, but she’s just started to shrug off her water-laden coat when Dimitri touches her shoulder.

She finds him watching her, the unspoken question in his eye faltering when he looks away shyly—no, she realizes, not shyly. Shamefully.

Understanding, she holds his rough hands between hers until he looks at her again, and then she wordlessly guides them to her sides.

With slow, careful movements he helps her out of her coat. His touch glides over her as he learns the design of her armor, and then removes the pieces, and it’s hard to imagine these hands as the same that so mercilessly extinguished life after life just recently.

He peels her leggings away with particular care, hooking his thumbs in the waistband and running his palms down her thighs. Byleth bites her cheek, and then has to make an effort to keep silent when his fingers brush over the backs of her knees, down her calves.

She would be lying if she denied feeling anything over it—here, especially, where they were intimate for the first time and a couple times after—but heavier than the heat gathering between her hips is the cold feeling of guilt still lodged firmly in her chest, a confession and apology she’s not sure how to give, or if she even can.

And while Dimitri seems to be in a better place than before, she doesn’t know if it’s a _good_ place yet. She isn’t about to act on any impulses unless she’s certain.

Before long they’re down to their damp smallclothes. At this point she doesn’t see the point in trading comfort for what feels like unnecessary modesty, so after some hesitant, questioning touches, those come off, too.

Then she reaches up, brushing his wet hair aside and running a curious finger along the strip of leather that rests across his forehead. Dimitri looks down, but nods, and she gently works his eyepatch up and off.

The scar looks clean. As painful as it must have been to receive, it looks like it’s healed well—no swelling, no redness in the skin. She gives him a small, encouraging smile.

Byleth takes Dimitri’s hand again and guides him to the bed, pulling back the covers to slide underneath them and letting him follow at his own pace. She doesn’t hesitate to press flush against him and wrap her arms around him, and then his strength slips as he buries his face in her neck and clings to her, fingers pressing bruises into her back.

The sheer sensation of it all gives them both pause at first—breaths catching, grips tightening slightly—before emotion wins out and they quickly relax. They’re still damp and cold, but their skins take little time to heat up as they lie there silent beneath the blanket.

Dimitri’s heavy breaths stutter as his hands roam and rub her back, gentler now. Byleth relates, hooking her knee over his hip to keep him close and tenderly running her fingers through his hair to work at the wet tangles. She starts rocking him gently without realizing, and eventually his breathing and movements start to slow.

When he finally falls still, she does the same. She listens to his slow breathing and the rain and the occasional creak of the old building around them, letting the sounds pull her away from her buzzing thoughts for the time being.

Tomorrow will have its own problems to deal with, but for now she can be thankful for this.

For the first time in a week, Byleth doesn’t dream—and for the first time in months, she sleeps peacefully, and feels confident Dimitri will do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karini over on twitter made [a very lovely fanart](https://twitter.com/Kariniarts/status/1287226939124547584?s=20) for this last scene! ;~; please go show it some love! <3


	11. Chapter 11

“I have been thinking.”

It’s the first time Dimitri has spoken since last night. Byleth doesn’t raise her head from his chest, but gives his hand a light squeeze to say she’s listening.

“I have been thinking a lot,” he murmurs, his deep voice a pleasant rumble against her ear, “and I think I know what it is I must do next.”

Byleth stays silent. She’s not sure how she feels: hopeful, worried, apprehensive. All of those, she supposes.

After a moment Dimitri sighs quietly. His thumb caresses the heel of her hand. “I think… I will walk for a bit. Clear my head.” He carefully grasps her hand back. “I won’t go anywhere,” he promises. “I just… need a little more time.”

She recognizes that for what it is: reassurance, but also a humble request for some time to himself. She leans up on her elbow to gaze down at him, at how the morning light softens the sharp angles of his face.

“Okay,” she says simply. She doesn’t add that she’ll be here if he needs her. He knows that already. The comfort stage of his current progress—wherever it’s leading to—is over. For now, at least.

Byleth sits up and Dimitri does the same, although he makes no immediate move to rise from the bed. He only stares down at where their hands are still joined.

“Byleth… I…”

His grip tightens a little, and then loosens.

“...I thank you. For allowing me to impose.” It doesn’t sound disingenuous, but there’s a slight clip to his tone that suggests he wanted to say something more than that.

She doesn’t push. “It’s not imposing,” she assures him gently.

His mouth moves in a way that might possibly be an attempt at a smile. He climbs to his feet and gets dressed, quickly enough to be efficient but slowly enough that he seems reluctant to leave. Byleth stays in bed, hugging her knees.

Dimitri pauses as he starts to retrieve Areadbhar. “Would it be alright if I leave this here?”

She’s glad for the gesture and what it implies. “Of course. Come by anytime.”

“Thank you.” Again, he hesitates. He’s out of ways to stall.

He turns back to her. “I would like to—I would be grateful if you would speak with me later. There is… much I wish to say.” His gaze avoids hers on those last few words, his expression darkening with what can only be shame.

Byleth nods. “Anytime,” she repeats.

* * *

Byleth isn’t sure how long “later” will be, so while Dimitri takes the time for self-reflection, she doesn’t wait around.

Since she doubts anyone is eager for a war council this early, she decides to wander the quiet grounds alone for a while. The peace of the cathedral is a tempting thought, but on the chance that Dimitri has also retreated there, she decides to avoid it, and just allows her feet to take her where they will.

She isn’t surprised when she eventually finds herself in the graveyard. The grass is still wet from the storm and feels springy beneath her boots. She keeps walking until she stands before the fresh mound of overturned earth marking Rodrigue’s resting place.

She stands there a while in silence. The unease in her chest is back in full. She starts to fidget, shifting her weight and worrying the ends of her sleeves between her fingers.

She considers saying something, but she’s not sure what the point would be. Even if he could hear her apology, it’s not like it would fix anything, or even make sense to anyone other than herself.

Byleth sighs, short and hard.

“Byleth?”

She stiffens briefly in surprise and turns to find Mercedes descending the stone staircase. “My, you’re up early.” The other woman’s soft eyes wander to the new grave. “Have you also come to pray for Lord Rodrigue?”

Byleth winces. “In a sense, I suppose.”

Mercedes places a fresh bundle of flowers atop the rest, and then smiles at her warmly. “Would you like to pray together?”

Slowly, Byleth nods, but as they bow their heads a moment later, it isn’t Sothis she directs her silent words to.

“How are you doing?” Mercedes asks once they finish. There’s just enough weight to her words to suggest it isn’t just a polite question.

“I’m fine.” Byleth doesn’t expand on it. Mercedes doesn’t push, but the look in her eyes is both patient and expectant. She’s picked up on Byleth’s mood. “I’m… fine,” Byleth repeats, with even less conviction. Her eyes are fixed on the grave. “I’m…” She sighs again. Closes her eyes for a moment. “He shouldn’t have had to die,” she says quietly.

Mercedes hums, soft and sad. “He seemed like a very good man. I think that’s the most terrible thing about war—it can take anyone from us.”

Byleth shakes her head. It’s _too much_. Watching Rodrigue gladly give his life—watching Dimitri crumble because of it—and now, standing here just feet away from his buried corpse after he talked with her and put his trust in her just days ago—

“No, I mean—it’s my fault. He died because I messed up.” Her voice fluctuates and wavers, threatening to crack.

“Oh, Byleth…” Mercedes sets a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please, don’t blame yourself. Lord Rodrigue knew the risks. We all do. But you’ve helped bring us this far, and we—”

_“No.”_ When Byleth looks at her she finds Mercedes’ face blurred by unshed tears. Anger and regret both threaten to choke her. “It really was my fault. I…”

Failed him.

Just like Jeralt.

She forced Dimitri to lose _another_ parent.

She hurt Felix.

She made them both go through the same terrible pain she did. Again.

She let one man die so the one she loves could live—and the worst part is that she’s not sure she would go back and stop herself, even if she could. Even now, the memory of Dimitri collapsing on the battlefield, either dead or dangerously close to it, fills her with angry nausea and makes her feel weak.

The relief that the shift in Dimitri’s behavior gave her last night has been sucked out of her. She feels tired and cold and shattered and for a selfish moment she wishes she could go back so much further than Gronder Field—back to when her father made all the calls and the only life she had to worry about was her own and she didn’t _hurt_ like this because the Ashen Demon didn’t _feel_ , everyone knew that—

She doesn’t realize Mercedes has moved closer until a warm arm wraps tenderly around her shoulders. “It’s alright,” that kind voice soothes. “Cry all you need to.”

_I’m not crying,_ Byleth starts to say.

But she is.

She’s not sure whom she’s crying for at this point—Rodrigue, Dimitri, herself—but uncertainty doesn’t stop the tears. They fall faster, hotter, and small sounds of distress bubble in her throat. Her guilt and shame and frustration boil over.

She buries her face in her hands as she breaks completely, sobbing and trembling. She leans into Mercedes when gently prompted, but the comfort and security of her presence only makes Byleth cry harder.

* * *

For every step Dimitri takes away from Byleth’s room, the more he regrets leaving it.

By the time he’s halfway across the grounds, he’s tense with the urge to turn around and go back. He even stops a moment and seriously entertains the idea, only to quickly force himself forward again.

He needs time to think. Not just about himself and his own future, but how Byleth fits into it, as well. He’s almost certain she would accept him with open arms, no questions asked—she did as much last night—but Dimitri doesn’t simply want _acceptance._ He wants to make things right, and that means starting with himself. It means deciding what it is he’s living for.

He avoids the cathedral. As peaceful as it is, he’s come to acquaint it far too intimately with the voices of the dead. They’ve been subdued since speaking with Byleth and he has no desire to stir them up just yet. It’s a selfish motive, he thinks, but he needs the silence while it lasts.

Without his lance, it’s too risky to venture outside the monastery walls for privacy. Most of the buildings will fill up with the morning crowds soon. He considers hiding away in one of the old classrooms, but many of them are used by soldiers these days for training and gatherings.

Dimitri eventually circles back around for the dormitories, figuring he’ll retreat to his old room if it’s still open—only to pause as he notices the small, easily overlooked stairwell between the dormitory building and the bathhouse.

Half an hour later he claims a corner table to himself in the ramshackle tavern of Abyss. As expected, no one gives him a second glance—many don’t even give him a first—and he’s glad for it. Compared to the pitying and fearful looks he’s grown used to, being ignored is a relief, especially since he can still be around the quiet buzz of people without turning heads. He’s always admired this underground sanctuary ever since learning of its existence, but that was as an outsider, his heart feeling for those who needed it. Now...

He rests his head against his folded hands and sinks fully into his mess of thoughts. There are a lot to go through, and with no way of telling the time down here he’s not sure how long he sits there.

“Didn’t expect to see you down here.”

Dimitri looks up at where Hapi stands poised midstep on her way to the bar. Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, wow. You actually don’t look half-dead for once.”

When he says nothing, she appears to flinch at her own words. “...Sorry. You’re probably— This isn’t a good time, huh?”

“No, it’s… alright.” Despite his earlier confidence, now he feels uncertain and glances around the room. “Is my presence… unsettling here?”

Hapi snorts softly. “You _have_ seen the place, right? Abyss wouldn’t be Abyss without a few dozen big brooding men around.” When Dimitri doesn’t answer, she stretches her arms out in front of her, cracking her fingers distractedly. “Well, I just made it super awkward in here. I’ll leave you to it.”

She continues on her way. Dimitri drops his gaze to the stained, scuffed tabletop, gathering the scattered pieces of his thoughts.

In what couldn’t be more than a couple minutes later, Hapi returns and sets a dented tankard down in front of him. “Just this once,” she explains when he gives her a puzzled look. “Since I went and made things weird.”

He pulls the proffered drink closer and gazes at the contents. The sweet scent catches him by surprise.

“It’s nine in the morning,” she points out, catching his expression. “I’m not an alcoholic. It’s just that porcelain’s a pretty big luxury down here.”

“...Thank you.” He sets the tea down between his hands to let it cool. Seeing her about to turn away, some long-buried remnants of his manners suddenly surface. “Would you—like to join me?”

Hapi cocks an eyebrow. “Is that... okay?” He nods, so she claims the chair opposite his with her own drink in hand. “I assume you still drink it straight,” she remarks with a nod at his tankard.

“I do.” He’s a little impressed. He only remembers having tea with her once, but perhaps she’s more observant than he realized.

He strives for something to say, but his mind comes up blank. It seems smalltalk doesn’t come as easily to him as it once did.

“So, you’re in a public place without your usual ‘piss off’ look going on,” she observes. Elbows on the table, she blows into her cup and disturbs the steam wafting out of it. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No. I just… thought I could use a change of scenery.”

“Hm.” She takes a cautious sip. “Hope that means Chatterbox got some proper sleep for once.”

Dimitri winces. Her tone isn’t accusatory, but he’s acutely aware of the sacrifices Byleth has made for him. “I believe she did.” Even he managed to sleep the whole night through, after all. He hopes she was able to rest easy.

Setting her chin in her hand, Hapi lets her gaze wander across the room as silence falls between them. When she turns back to him, she’s as blunt as he remembers. “So what now?”

He lowers his cup. “Now?”

“We’re having a civil conversation and you haven’t growled at anyone for the past five minutes. You don’t seem like the same guy who was dead set on blazing into the Empire at any cost.”

Definitely as blunt as he remembers.

Dimitri sighs quietly, looking away. That same thought has been one of many on his mind. “I’m most definitely he. But… suffice to say I am reevaluating things at present.”

“Change of heart, huh?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I’m trying to decide what it is I really want myself.” When Hapi only stares at him, he swirls his drink distractedly. “It is… a long and unpleasant story.”

“So give me the short version.” She shrugs a shoulder. “If you want.”

“I’ve… gone a long time trying to fulfill a debt, you could say. Now I’m wondering if I should take a different path than the one I’ve been on.” It’s an oversimplified summary, he thinks, but it’s to the point.

Hapi hums. “Do you like the one you’re on now?”

“No.”

“Then—there’s your answer, right?” Her eyebrow spikes again. “If you’re already miserable and no one’s holding you down, there’s nowhere else to go but up. Didn’t take you for the type to just settle for whatever the world throws at you.”

Dimitri stares at her.

“What?” she asks warily. “You’re creeping me out a little.”

“It’s just— Your answer was… surprisingly simple.”

“Wow, okay. Ouch.”

“No, don’t misunderstand—I meant—” His frown deepens. “You answered so quickly, when it’s taken me years to come to the same conclusion.”

“The conclusion that… what, you’re allowed to be happy?” she wonders, puzzled.

“Something like that, yes.”

Hapi taps her fingers on her tankard thoughtfully. “No offense, Didi, but we literally _just_ started having this heart-to-heart and it’s already getting too heavy for me. I don’t know how Chatterbox handles it.”

Dimitri breathes heavily through his nose. “Nor I,” he admits.

* * *

“I know it sounds… ridiculous.” Byleth frowns at her understatement. She’s sure she sounds positively mad, but Mercedes still wears the same neutral, thoughtful expression that she did while listening to Byleth speak for the last few minutes.

“Well,” Mercedes says finally, slowly, “I did watch you tear open the sky once.” She offers Byleth a small, playful smile. “And I truly believe you were blessed by the Goddess. But more than that, you’re my friend. I trust you—and I believe you.”

Byleth lets out a shaky breath. She’s not sure how she ended up with such loyal friends.

That small bloom of relief quickly shrivels. “I can’t tell Dimitri,” she murmurs. “He would blame himself. It would tear him apart.”

“Mm.”

The two of them sit unspeaking for a long moment, side-by-side on the bottom step of the graveyard’s stairs. Sounds of early morning activity have started in the distance, but the two of them are still alone for now.

“He always did tend to put everything on himself,” Mercedes agrees finally. “Maybe you don’t necessarily have to hide it; maybe you just have to wait until he’s ready to hear it.”

At this point, Byleth can only hope he improves that much one day. “Maybe.” She’s finished crying, but her voice is still thin and cracked. “But I don’t… _feel_ right. It doesn’t seem fair that I could be with him, knowing I’m responsible for what he’s going through.”

In the corner of her eye, Mercedes levels a steady look at her. “If he did know, do you think it would change how he feels about you?”

“No,” she answers without hesitation.

“What do you think he would say, if you told him everything you just told me?”

Byleth thinks, absently tracing lines in her leggings. “Probably… that I shouldn’t blame myself for trying. That I can’t control everything that happens.”

She sees what Mercedes is getting at. Even so…

Mercedes gives her hand a light pat. “I think you and Dimitri are actually a lot alike—you’re both harder on yourselves than anyone else. You own up to your mistakes, and that’s admirable, but I think you both have a hard time accepting your failures and forgiving yourselves for them.”

Byleth crosses her arms over her stomach as those words sink in. Is that the truth? Was she a hypocrite, then, when she insisted Dimitri forgive himself, despite refusing to do the same over her own mistakes? Or was that why she felt so much for his situation in the first place?

“You know Dimitri better than I do,” Mercedes goes on, “so only you can decide what you want to tell him. But if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you should try to make peace with yourself before you do so with him.”

Byleth can see the sense in that, too. The more control she has over her emotions, the less likely she is to say something spontaneous.

“I don’t know if I can,” she confesses. “I just keep thinking about what I could have done differently.” She grips her knees with a low sigh. “It was like that when my father died, too.”

“Hmm… How many lives have you saved with your powers, Byleth?”

“What?”

“In all the battles that you turned back time to protect someone—how often did you succeed?”

A few particularly grim instances come to mind, including a couple involving Mercedes herself, but Byleth can’t possibly give an estimate. “I don’t know. I didn’t count.”

“It sounds to me like you’ve done things the right way plenty of times.” Mercedes’ smile is warm and patient, although it grows respectfully solemn as she adds, “From what you told me about Lord Rodrigue, it sounds like he was glad to die the death that he did. Maybe you gave him a better fate than what was originally written for him… Maybe you did exactly what you were supposed to.”

Slowly, Byleth raises her head, her brows knit in concentration.

_A fate is still a fate._

She was so quick to dismiss Sothis at the time, as upset and angry as she was, and yet… If there was truth in those words, it wouldn’t be the first time the Goddess’ wisdom outmatched her own.

“But only the Goddess knows such things,” Mercedes reminds her, eerily on cue with that thought. “We humans can only have faith and keep looking forward… And I think you’ve always been really good at that, for as long as I’ve known you.”

_Having faith. Looking forward._

Mercedes giggles softly into her hand. “Maybe that’s why you and Dimitri make such a good pair. It’s probably one more thing he admires about you.”

That pulls a small, wry smile out of Byleth. Her confidence has never really been a choice, as far as she’s aware. Unlike Dimitri, she never had a past to cling to; _forward_ was the only direction she _could_ look.

But Mercedes has a point. A few of them, actually. Byleth draws in a deep breath and holds it as she considers what’s been said.

“I’m still not sure I believe in fate,” she admits. “But… you’ve given me something to think about. Thank you.”

“Of course. I hope you find peace with the past, Byleth. Dimitri, too.”

* * *

The knock on Byleth’s door comes sooner than she expects, just shortly after sundown.

She isn’t surprised to find Dimitri filling her doorway when she answers it. Despite the shadow he throws over her and into the room, he somehow appears small as his gaze wavers and his voice comes out quiet.

“Is now a good time?”

She steps aside, closing the door behind him as he passes. For a moment Dimitri glances around the small room, as if he wasn’t just here hours ago. Byleth studies him, noting the subtle shift in the way he’s carried himself since speaking at the meeting earlier—he walks taller, more comfortably and confidently, and less like a wary animal prepared to lash out.

She also caught the faint smell of soap when he passed. His hair is still messy, but it looks cleaner. His cloak and chest armor are gone and he’s wearing a clean, simple tunic.

“I want to thank you,” he starts as he turns around. “For backing my decision earlier. It means a lot, having your support.”

Byleth shakes her head with a soft smile. “It was a good decision. That one’s to your credit.”

“I only reached it thanks to you and Rodrigue.”

This time Byleth’s the one to look away. The pause goes on for so long that she’s certain she just made things awkward—but when she looks up again she finds Dimitri staring intently at her. Even with her staring back, he’s slow to speak.

“You look exactly as you have in my memory all these years,” he says quietly, a little in awe. “Everyone else seems so different, but you…” His brow furrows thoughtfully. “You really were asleep.” Byleth holds the look and Dimitri quickly amends, “I didn’t doubt your words, but—the more I think about it… It must have been such a shock, waking to things as they were.”

“It was.”

Dimitri appears torn for a moment, as if uncertain whether to add onto that thought. In the end, he glances aside and lets his voice rise back to normal volume. “I... considered speaking to you before the meeting. But I realized there is a lot I need to say, so I hope my conviction earlier might help convince you that my next words are honest.”

Byleth waits, letting him set the pace.

“I do not offer excuses. I do not expect forgiveness, nor do I believe I deserve it. But the very least I can do is explain myself, for what it is worth.” He meets her gaze again. What he lacks in confidence, he makes up for in determination. “If you will permit me.”

When she nods, his expression softens further, looking as though she just granted him mercy. “Thank you.”

As he pauses to find his words, Byleth gestures to the bed—and makes a mental note that a tea table and some chairs would be useful decor. “Would you like to sit down?”

By the time they do so, Dimitri has settled on what to say. “I doubt my words will come as much of a surprise. I imagine you’ve seen through me since the beginning.” He pauses for a few beats, and then draws a breath. “There hasn’t been a single day in the last five years that I didn’t think of you.”

Her face stays neutral, but something inside her clenches—too tightly for her to be sure of what it is yet.

“I lied to you—poorly, I’m sure—when I spoke of leaving my feelings for you behind. If anything, I… Were it possible, I may have loved you more after I lost you.” His expression darkens, a pained look.

“When you appeared to me months ago, alive and well…” He exhales sharply. “I need not remind you of what transpired. But even then, I knew I was being… unreasonable. To put it lightly. I should have welcomed you back with open arms. I should have been honest, and kind—I should have helped you, and accepted the help you offered me. But as desperately as I wanted to… more than any of those desires, I felt fear when I looked at you.”

Byleth shifts in place as she turns that over, doing her best to make sense of it. In the end, she can only frown gently at him. “Why?”

“Because I knew—if anyone could convince me that my path wasn’t the right one, it would be you. And I refused to consider that I had come so far and killed so much for nothing.” Dimitri grips the edge of the mattress as he stares at the opposite wall. “More than that… I did not want you risking your life for my sake.”

He hangs his head, a dry and bitter smile claiming the corner of his mouth. “It is a fool’s logic, I know. Pushing you away was merely avoiding responsibility. I probably only endangered you more.”

Slowly, as if wary of startling him, Byleth settles her hand atop his. Dimitri glances down at it; his grip on the bed gradually eases.

“I am not as strong as you, Byleth,” he nearly whispers. “For so long, my strength to keep going has depended on others. Perhaps that is my greatest weakness, as well.” His thumb catches her little finger, pressing it against his skin. “Had Dedue not appeared that day in Fhirdiad… had I not believed he had traded his life for mine, I… I do not doubt that I would have gone to the gallows without an ounce of fight left in me. Even after escaping, there were days… when I…” He doesn’t finish, but the haunted look on his face says enough.

“I let my fear of losing you become more important than you.” His voice sounds strained. His eye narrows. “But even that was nothing more than self-interest. If I lost you again… I doubt even vengeance would have mattered to me anymore. Then all my efforts really would have gone to waste.”

He shakes his head, and then slowly sits up straight and turns to her proper. “I know that no apology will ever be enough. I will not ask you to forgive me, but… please. Know that I am sorry, for everything—all that I’ve done, and all that I’ve failed to do. My regret is more than I can express… and my sins against you alone are more than I can ever hope to make amends for.”

Byleth looks down at where his hand is all but limp beneath hers now. As grateful as she is for his transparent explanation, her response is much shorter and much simpler.

“Apology accepted.”

Dimitri stiffens. “But... I—”

“You apologized. I forgave you. That’s how it works,” she reminds him coolly. “Isn’t it?”

His mouth flattens into a line. “But I don’t…”

“And—I also want to apologize.” She gives his hand a small squeeze. “For not being totally honest with you before.” Dimitri doesn’t press, but she catches the curiosity in his gaze. She takes a breath before explaining, “Before Sothis disappeared… there was another power she gave me. I’ve had it almost as long as I’ve known you. It has its limits, but… I can reverse the flow of time. To try to change something that’s happened.”

It feels unnervingly quiet all of a sudden. Dimitri only watches her, his attentive calm outweighing the shadow of surprise in his face.

“I know it’s hard to believe—it’s not something I can easily prove—but all those times I anticipated an enemy’s ambush, or knew when someone would be attacked… Most of the time, that was why.

“You don’t have to believe me,” she assures him, “but I’m telling you this now because… what happened at Gronder… I wanted to protect as many people as I could—but in the end, Rodrigue…” She shakes her head gently. “I’m so sorry, Dimitri. I couldn’t—”

He takes her hand between both of his. Just like Mercedes, there’s nothing skeptical or criticizing in his sad expression. “Byleth, please—don’t think that way. That is the reality of war, unfortunately—I doubt even the Goddess herself could have protected everyone in the midst of that slaughter.”

His small sigh is loud in the stillness of the room. “As strange as your claim is, I believe you, of course. And I am equally certain that you did everything you could. So please… do not apologize for watching over us. And do not torment yourself with such thoughts. Especially when I am the one who forced you into such a situation to begin with.”

While his answer is predictable, it’s still comforting. There’s nothing hesitant in it, only his usual sympathy and honesty. Byleth’s guilt won’t be so easily dissuaded, but sharing it— _knowing_ he thinks no less of her—makes it a little easier to bear.

She gives him a tired smile. Mercedes had the right of it. “I guess we’re both a little hypocritical,” she muses grimly. “Apologizing, but then not really expecting forgiveness.”

Dimitri makes a low, thoughtful sound. “I suppose so.”

His hands continue to cradle hers. She notices scars on his knuckles that weren’t there before, barely visible against the burns.

“Why don’t we call it even for now?” she proposes. “No more apologies tonight, at least.”

He’s slow to nod. “Yes. That is enough for one day, I think.”

If she wasn’t already convinced that this will be a long road for him to traverse, his tone suggests as much. His actions are certainly in the right direction, but she wonders about everything he isn’t saying, and how hard he’s continuing to be on himself.

“Are you going back to the cathedral tonight?” she asks.

“No.” His answer is quick and firm enough that she believes him. “I think I will go to pay my respects, at least, but… I was thinking I would return to my room starting tonight.” He eyes her apologetically. “We can both try to get some proper rest.”

That widens her smile. “Good. But…”

“But?” He frowns, concerned.

“I was hoping you might want to stay here again.”

For a moment that hangs in the air. It’s hard to tell what Dimitri’s thinking but she lets him take it as he will.

When he finally looks away, she’s disappointed, even though she’s not surprised.

“I would like to,” he says hesitantly, quietly, “but…”

Her free hand settles on his knee. He flinches slightly at the touch. “But what?”

“You would really take me back so readily? After all that I…”

She cups his face. She doesn’t force him to look at her, but after a moment he does so anyway. “I can’t take you back if I never let you go in the first place.”

Dimitri’s breath leaves him sharply. He looks over her face hopefully, almost desperately, before averting his gaze again. “Byleth, I don’t deserve—”

“Don’t tell me what you deserve.” Her voice is firm, but not unkind. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” he answers immediately, hoarsely, as though the word is forcefully ripped from him. He turns back to her. “Always you.”

She leans closer, touching her forehead to his chin. His breath is warm. “Then that’s enough.”

Slowly, his arm slips behind her shoulders. Hers hug his waist as she leans into him, and the kiss he presses gingerly to her hair makes her sigh shakily.

“This is all I care about,” she breathes against his chest. “Being with you _now_.”

His hold on her tightens slightly and she clings to him just the same, breathing in his scent and his warmth. They sit there for a while, silent but comfortable, simply being with each other—a prospect that seemed so far away just a couple weeks ago.

Byleth withdraws eventually, just enough to tilt her head back and find his gaze. This time he holds it.

Even now, she’s not sure he’ll come to her, so she eases her fingers through his hair until she’s cupped the back of his head. She doesn’t have to tug. He leans down.

He kisses her like he did that very first time: determined but careful, a light tremble in his hands as he holds her hips. When he draws back to look at her—questioning, uncertain—she answers with another, more confident kiss that he immediately sinks into, his broad shoulders relaxing beneath her hands.

It’s so jarringly familiar as they fall back into the motions, it’s almost like those years never happened—except despite Dimitri’s attention to his movements, they’re a little rougher, a little clumsier than before as his hands start to explore her. Byleth already stripped down to her top and shorts for the evening, so there’s little in the way of his touch as it drags across her bare back and rubs her arms and kneads her thighs.

She has the impression that it feels more desperate than anything, as if he’s been starved for her touch for so long that he can’t get enough of her.

It’s as good a time as any to let him have his fill.

She has his shirt off by the time she slides into his lap, their kiss turned deep with hunger. Her hands glide down his warm chest and that simple sensation is enough to make her moan softly, keening for more, even as she endeavors to memorize the touch of every new scar that her fingertips come across.

Emboldened, Dimitri makes equally quick work of easing her shirt over her head. She arches into him eagerly as he maps her back with calloused hands, her tongue stumbling over his name before it pushes into his mouth to dance with his.

A fire ignites in her skin. Her body burns everywhere they touch and it’s wonderful, terrible, as overwhelming as it is maddening, so satisfying but still not _enough_. The pounding ache between her thighs wants more of him, even as the soft kisses he trails down her neck leave her knees weak and her thoughts struggling to connect.

She nearly growls in disappointment when his mouth leaves her skin, but then he presses his face into her hair and breathes out sharply and she realizes he’s shaking as he holds her.

“Byleth, I…” His voice catches. He shakes his head, but only hugs her closer.

It takes her a moment, but she smothers her simmering desire enough to think straight. Rubbing his shoulders, she shushes him softly. “It’s okay. Is this too soon?”

Another headshake. “No,” he whispers just shy of her ear. “It’s just that I…”

Slowly, Dimitri pulls back and touches his forehead to hers for a moment. Then he sits up, raising her hand to hold her knuckles to his lips for another few beats, eye closed as he breathes deep.

“Words don’t feel like enough, after everything I’ve…” His mumble trails off. He looks at her evenly. “I hope you’ll still believe me when I say—I love you, Byleth.”

It isn’t the first time he’s said it. Regardless, the way he says it now—direct, certain, without a hint of embarrassment—makes Byleth’s breath stutter and her face grow warmer.

“One of my biggest regrets has always been not saying it enough. I should have told you every day. I…” He frowns, but she nudges his chin up with a finger.

“You did,” she reminds him. “Not always with those words, but I knew.” She brushes her hand over his cheek. “But I could have said it more myself. So I will.” She kisses him lightly. “As much as you need.” Another kiss, and then she lingers close to breathe the words into him. “I love you, Dimitri.”

She can’t tell if it’s a sigh or a laugh or even a low sob that passes his lips, but when he kisses her a second later it’s the softest one yet. His hands find hers and thread their fingers and Byleth marvels at the idea that he was ever afraid of hurting her. Even now, after years of fighting and with hands worn rough by the elements and wielding his lance, his touch is the gentlest it’s ever been.

With just as much care, she eases him backwards until they’re lying flat. The heat in her blood continues to buzz, but for now she takes it slow and tends to him entirely. 

She hums against his lips as she pulls away, moving down his neck to suck tenderly at his rapid pulse while one hand explores the now unfamiliar terrain of his chest, the other still intertwined with his. Her palm hovers over his heart, strong and fast and matching the softer beat against her lips.

His breath hitches and stalls in time with her caresses. She thumbs his nipple and he groans. He's either more sensitive than before or he’s just that aroused by her.

When Byleth sits up and settles on his hips, she isn’t surprised to find that he’s already hard for her. Even with the frustrating layers of clothing still between them, he’s a big and solid enough presence between her thighs that she gasps quietly. She rocks gently against him, her moans joining his as her eyes and fingers continue to learn the changes in his body.

In addition to the scars, Dimitri also acquired more muscle over the years. It’s pleasing to both sight and touch but his skin stretches a little too tightly in a couple places, betraying unhealthy habits. Even so, he’s never been more desirable in her eyes.

“Byleth…” He gives her hand a beseeching tug, his fingers ghosting up her stomach. She grinds against him one last time, harder—his head falls back with a choke and his hips buck against her—and then drags herself back up his body to kiss up his exposed throat to his mouth.

This time his kiss is deeper, eager. He frees her from her brassiere—she thinks she hears it tear—and Byleth gladly tosses it aside, and then leans up on her hands to give him space. On their own, her breasts aren’t very sensitive, but his touch burns as he takes one in his hand. If she wasn’t already wet, she would be when he starts rubbing her nipple and slowly pumping her.

She hums his name and lets her eyes fall closed, enjoying the trade-off as he pleases her. When his large hand cups her ass and pulls her forward, she laughs in surprise—only to melt into a moan as his mouth takes to her other breast.

She praises him in heated whispers, especially when his tongue grows bolder. Her hips move again without her realizing, grinding against his hard chest for some friction until she finally loses patience. She has half a mind to tell him to tear her remaining clothes off, but she’s already lost spares to battle, so wasting resources probably isn’t a good idea.

Instead Byleth eases free with a promise to be quick, and then slides off of him to stand up. She keeps hold of his hand while she works her shorts and underwear off, loving the way he watches her with that hungry glint in his eye.

After kicking her clothes aside she moves between his knees to loose his belt, his pants, and when she rejoins him a minute later there’s nothing left hidden between them—not even Dimitri’s blind eye, which she frees with careful fingers and a smile.

Sitting on his hips, she holds his cock between her thighs and begins kneading the head in her hand. The moan she earns from him is so long and deep that she almost thinks he’s about to finish already—but then he begs her to continue and she obliges, deciding to save teasing for another time.

Her free hand covers what her legs can’t and she strokes him gently, hand over hand, reacquainting herself with the weight and feel of him. Just those simple motions have him all but writhing underneath her. She tests a soft squeeze and her name tears out of his throat, hot and heavy and pleading. Goosebumps race over every inch of her skin.

Tilting his cock towards him, she presses closer and teases her clit against it until she’s panting. Small whines escape her lips with every movement.

“Dimitri,” she moans, breathless, “I missed you so much.”

His hands caress her thighs in time with her strokes, pressing marks into her skin with more force. That only encourages her and she rubs her thighs against him to give them both some more sensation. The look on his face is beautiful, the desperate strain in his voice the most attractive sound he’s ever made.

_“Byleth—!”_

She plants her palm against his chest to lean over him again, the other still gripping his erection between her legs. His hands stumble over her, desperate to touch more—and when she drags the tip of him all the back way to where she aches most, letting him feel how wet she is for him and how terribly close she is to taking him completely, she’s sure she’ll have bruises tomorrow where his fingers dig into her sides.

It’s tempting—and Byleth comes close to asking him then and there if he has any reservations, only to catch herself. Even if she’s convinced that she’s comfortable with the risks, she can’t say for sure that he’s thinking as clearly as she is. Neither does Dimitri need anymore concerns at present—not with a war to win, and not when he’s only just started to think in his own interest.

She sits on his thighs again and uses both hands to pump him. He thrusts into her grasp, growling her name, and despite her own body’s craving she only tends to his, moving faster while she purrs his praise for being so good to her, so handsome, so gentle.

She sees the instant his climax crashes into him and it’s as breathtaking as ever: the muscles in his chest going taut, the sharp groan, the exchange of tension and relief in his face. Watching him makes her shiver, the throbbing between her legs matching the thudding in her ears.

Only when he relaxes does Byleth let her eyes wander from his face, down to the warm mess he’s painted in her lap, and she wonders how it would feel inside her. Another spike of heat makes her bite her lip.

Dimitri gradually pushes himself up and takes hold of her hands, tilting her into him to catch her mouth in a kiss. It goes on long enough that Byleth’s hand itches to slip down and relieve her ache, but then he pants against her lips, low and rough,

“Turn around.”

She’s not sure if it’s the command or the subtle graze of his teeth on her lip that sends a chill down her spine.

She does as he says and sits in his lap. Nuzzling the side of her neck, he wraps an arm around her waist to hold her as he lies down again. His hot chest against her back makes Byleth hum appreciatively, as does the hand he slides up her thigh to her knee.

“Dimitri…”

He drags two fingers along the seam of her legs, where he finds no resistance as he nudges them apart. On the contrary she spreads them eagerly, her chest quivering with impatient pants as her hands find purchase in the blankets of her bed.

He hasn’t forgotten how to touch her.

The small room fills with her muffled whines and moans as he works her into a frenzy, gentle but _knowing_ and doing all the right things—his fingers stroking and pressing along her core, his mouth claiming her neck with kisses and careful bites. She starts rolling her hips into his hand and he obliges her immediately, pushing one finger into her, and then a second, and his name is a prayer on her lips even before he starts thrusting.

Byleth praises as much as she curses. She buries her fingers in his hair and holds him close and runs her skittering touch along his strong arm, appreciating the definition of his muscles as one more thing to push her towards her rapidly approaching ledge.

His second hand rediscovers her clit and she arches off of him with a shout. When she falls back against him she goes rigid, her body coiled tight with pressure and her sight dotted with stars. Her moans are loud now, thinning into wistful mewls as he starts flexing his fingers inside her. His movements have grown rougher, mixing a bit of pain with her pleasure, but she doesn’t correct him. She’s not sure she could get the words out at this point, anyway.

She doesn’t hold back when she goes over: she cries out to let him know what he does to her and how much it shakes her, how much she loves it. She whimpers with each clench of her body around his fingers, and when they start to die down she thrusts against him weakly to chase a couple more.

Eventually her high levels off and brings her back down to the tender kisses on her shoulder and the hands massaging her thighs. She manages a short, thick moan to signal she’s done and releases her hard grip on his hair.

Dimitri rolls them carefully onto their sides and huddles close against her, hugging her tight and helping to ease the last of her trembling. Before long Byleth pushes herself over to face him, exhausted but smiling.

For a while they trade nothing but touches—light kisses, his fingers in her hair, her legs tangling with and gently rubbing against his. When he strokes his knuckles along her jawline, Byleth presses the back of his hand to her cheek.

“Did I ever tell you how much I like your hands?” She works circles into his palm. “You’re good with them.” His gaze drops shyly to the side and she kisses his knuckles, and then hums against his skin. “I like how strong they are… and I like how careful you are for me.”

Dimitri seems uncertain how to take that bit of praise. Fresh color warms his face, unrelated to his exertion, as he glances down over her body.

“Not as careful as I should be,” he mutters. His fingertips ghost over her hip. Her red skin still stings a little from his eager grasp before.

She catches his mouth in a soft kiss, heading off his apology. “I don’t mind,” she murmurs when they part, and tilts her head thoughtfully, playfully. “I like it, actually. When you leave marks. It's a nice reminder.”

This time there’s a hint of an embarrassed laugh as he looks away. “Is… that so?”

“Mm-hm. So don’t worry.” Byleth nestles against him, her head beneath his chin. “I trust you.”

That’s another phrase she figures she should say more often.

Byleth noticed long ago that Dimitri’s self-conscious about his hands. At first she thought it was the scars, considering the lengths he goes to in keeping them hidden; then she thought he was embarrassed about displaying affection in general, which lined up with what she heard about Faerghus society. But he had no issue with _being_ touched—on the contrary, he’s always seemed to crave it—and when Byleth had no adverse reaction to seeing his bare hands, he became more comfortable with showing them.

Initiating touch was what made him nervous. It took her a while to convince him that he could do so, and a while longer for him to accept that he didn’t need to treat her like glass. It seems these last five years didn’t reset his frame of mind on that matter, at least, but with his hands as stained as he says they are, he might need the extra reassurance.

After a moment, Dimitri wraps an arm around her. He starts massaging a good spot between her shoulders and earns an appreciative hum. “Does this mean you’re staying after all?” she wonders with a playful glance.

His chest rumbles with a low hum, his breath briefly fanning her hair in a warm chuckle.

“Yes… I’m here to stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rozeletta and Kinjiki did an awesome audio collab of the last scene [here!](https://twitter.com/RozovyaVA/status/1296862128016699392?s=20) please go give it a listen and a share, it's great stuff! <3


	12. Chapter 12

A knock on the door made Jeralt grunt without raising his head. “Alois, I already said it can wait.”

“Busy?”

His irritation dissipated. He looked up to see Byleth standing in the doorway, her eyebrows lifted just slightly in question. Glancing over his shoulder at the glare of the afternoon sun filling the window, Jeralt grunted again. “That time already?” He dropped the report onto his desk—gladly—and ran a hand over his face. “Nah, come on in, kid.”

She did so, balancing the tray in her hands with casual ease before setting it on the uncluttered corner of his desk. “Catching up after the holiday?” she wondered.

“Just catching up, period. Forgot how much damn paperwork this involves,” he muttered. He straightened some of his mess to make room for her, and then watched as she set about preparing the tea. Like any skill of hers, she carried out the task like clockwork, her motions fluid and precise. She’d never been much of a tea-drinker before coming to the monastery, but apparently it was all the rage among her classmates or something. She had learned the ropes as quickly as she learned anything.

Jeralt had no strong feelings about the stuff either way, but every time she came to his office with the kettle he was reminded sharply of Sitri, who had shared many a conversation with him over a cup or two. It stung a little, sure, but seeing the similarities in Byleth also warmed him like few things still could these days.

“What about you?” he wondered. “Enjoy your time off?”

Byleth nodded as she set a cup down in front of him. “Yes. I sparred with some classmates before it got too hot. Then Dimitri and I talked for a while. It was nice.” She sat in the chair opposite his and took up her own cup, blowing gently on the steaming liquid.

He noticed she tended to fall back into old speaking habits around him, her sentences short and to the point, her tone quiet and steady. It didn’t bother him; like always, he could read between the lines in her words and find hints in her stoic face that others couldn’t. The familiarity was honestly a bit comforting. As much as it pleased him to see her so expressive and happy these days, he didn’t want to think his daughter had changed _that_ much while he'd had his back turned.

More deserving of attention was the name she’d mentioned.

“The prince again, huh?”

Another nod. For about a minute they sat in their usual comfortable silence, Byleth sipping at her tea and Jeralt staring a hole into his.

“Seems you really like the guy,” he observed, as casually as he could manage.

“I’ve considered him a friend for a while now.”

He could tell her simple answer was an honest one, but that was what puzzled him. Had Byleth noticed the way the prince fell into wistful glances and lingering stares and awkward laughs around her? If she had, did she think anything of them? Or was her view of him limited by the fact that he was her first real friend?

Jeralt had debated asking before—a few dozen times, probably, ever since the two kids started writing to each other a ways back—but he stopped himself each time. Even if Dimitri had shallow intentions, he reasoned, there wasn’t much that even the prince of Faerghus could do when they were territories apart. There was no harm in letting Byleth work out her friendship with him on her own time, and so Jeralt had settled for that vague, probably unhelpful warning about keeping her guard up.

Running into the royal brat in the woods that night had been a surprise, to say the least.

When Jeralt’s silence stretched on, this time Byleth tilted her head slightly. “You still don’t trust him?”

He grimaced, but considered his words for a few beats. “Let me ask you this, Byleth: do _you_ trust him?”

“Yes.” Zero hesitation. That surprised him.

“In battle?”

“In general.”

Hm.

Considering there had been even long-time members of their mercenary group that Byleth never turned her back on—Jeralt was the only one she ever seemed to have full confidence in—that was quite the statement.

“You’ve made more friends since coming here, right? Do you trust them?”

Now she did pause to consider. “Not as much as Dimitri. But yes.”

Well, that was logical. Her friendship with the prince was… what, around two or three years old now? Compared to the couple months she’d been attending the academy, it was only natural that she hadn’t yet warmed up to anyone else as much.

Jeralt nearly sighed at himself as he picked up his tea. He was fretting over nothing. Byleth was an adult, and an intelligent and capable one besides. Regardless of how much she trusted Dimitri, or how much Jeralt didn’t, the fact of the matter was that Jeralt trusted _her_. Honestly, if the prince did try anything distasteful, Byleth was probably in greater danger of slitting his throat on reflex than being taken advantage of.

“Well… good,” he replied finally. “I’m glad you have someone like that. Good friends are hard to find.”

Byleth watched him drink, her brow pinched just slightly in that way that heralded a question. “There’s something I’m not sure about, though.”

Jeralt hummed inquisitively into his cup.

Her stoicism cracked; she sounded thoughtful and genuinely curious. “Are we… still considered friends after we’ve kissed?”

True to his luck, he managed to spit his mouthful of tea directly onto his stack of reports.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about halfway done with the next chapter but y'all can thank Tenkage for giving me a funny idea that I decided to run with and make into this dumb filler thing that I wrote in an hour
> 
> Jeralt deserved a POV scene ok
> 
> now back to writing the serious stuffs ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


	13. Chapter 13

The heavy stone doors to the mausoleum give easily under Dimitri’s hand, swinging slowly inwards with a solemn creak. He doesn’t immediately enter, but stares into the corridor beyond without moving or speaking. His heartbeat, while steady, is loud in his ears.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Byleth’s voice is a lifeline, grounding his feet and pulling his thoughts up from their usual dark place. He looks down to meet her cool gaze.

“Please,” he says quietly.

The distant sounds of music and merriment fade as they enter. The hall of stone and marble seems to swallow every sound but their footsteps, which are unnervingly loud as they echo off the walls and give the impression that they’re a company of twenty rather than two. Byleth stays close against his side, warmed by his cloak as he holds it around the both of them. It’s not quite as chilly in here as it is outside, but when they descend the staircase further in, the air turns cooler, a little stagnant with the pressure of the earth on all sides.

Torches light their way until they arrive in the tomb proper, a large and open space with a tall ceiling and special mirrors that enable sunlight－moonlight, currently－to fill the room for visibility. For a place of death, it’s lovely: white marble, elegantly carved pillars, and meticulously clean walls and floors.

Dimitri leads them silently past the rows of inscribed epitaphs that mark grave after grave of men and women long dead. He stops at the last of them.

His father’s name faces him in bold, striking letters. His eye traces the seams in the wall marking where the casket lies just behind it－and a corpse inside it, surely nothing but bones now, that would have been buried in pieces.

A subtle shift in Dimitri’s breathing makes Byleth tighten her hold on his hand. After a moment, he gently squeezes back and nods. She offers him one of the bouquets she’s carrying, which he gingerly accepts so as not to crush the stems.

When he kneels to place it before the grave, Byleth kneels with him.

They move on to the smaller one to the left of it－“My birth mother,” he explains, brushing his fingers over the inscription－and make the same offering, as well as to the one on the right－“And… my stepmother.”

They linger a minute longer, paying their respects in silence. Then he leads her to the next room over.

“This monument is a record of all knights who gave their lives in service.”

He remembers looking up at the wall of names in awe when he was a child, during the several times he accompanied his father down here. At the time, the idea was a romanticized one in his mind, the very definition of chivalry and glory.

Now it sends a chill of unease through his bones. As his gaze falls upon Glenn’s name, he can only pray that he’ll never see another friend added to it.

The night air feels crisp and clean when they finally emerge from the mausoleum. The ambient noise of the castle feels strange on his ears after the weighty stillness below ground－the cold breeze twisting around the walls, the footsteps of patrolling soldiers, the hum of the crowd’s voices in the distance. He finds himself comforted by the familiar sounds.

“Thank you for accompanying me. It had been a long while since I last visited their graves.” Dimitri slips his arm, and cloak, around Byleth’s small shoulders once more. “Truthfully, I was always terribly afraid of going near there... but I could not stay away forever.”

She places her warm hand over his, a sign of comfort and solidarity. “Do you still hear them?” she asks after a moment. As ever, there’s nothing judgmental nor skeptical in her tone. Her face only tells of concern.

“Not nearly as often.” He avoids the frown or turn of his head that the subject would once have prompted. “Usually only in battle. Or late at night, although you have been a relief in that regard.” He smiles softly, sadly at her before adding, “But… they are a little louder today.”

Her grip on his hand tightens. For now, Dimitri leaves it at that.

As they draw closer to the Great Hall, the sounds of chatter and music grow louder. Up ahead, people can be seen outside the building in pairs and small groups, having likewise stolen away from the party.

“It seems our celebratory feast shows no sign of stopping,” Dimitri observes with some amusement. “Have you grown weary of the festivities?”

Byleth’s tired hum answers for her as she leans into his side. “I think that’s enough dancing and introductions for one night.”

Perhaps a bit selfishly, he’s glad to hear that. He would return with her if she wished it, but he appreciates the excuse to avoid being the center of attention anymore than he already has. He never stopped to consider that simply _being_ in Fhirdiad would be more stressful than fighting to take it back.

“If memory serves, you were much the same at the ball, all those years ago,” he recalls fondly. In a similar spirit as back then, he directs them away from the crowd, up a stairwell that takes them out onto the rampart that winds around the Hall. There are guards stationed up here, as well, but Dimitri politely dismisses the nearest one, granting Byleth and himself a small stretch of privacy and a view of the horizon beyond the city limits.

As she gazes out at the sight, he wraps them both in his cloak and hugs her lightly to his chest. She leans into him.

Their recent days in Garreg Mach spoiled him. He grew used to quiet moments like these, at night and in the morning and in between meetings, only to have them grow scarce during the army’s march for Fhirdiad. They shared a tent more often than not－particularly after Byleth noticed that he looked tired on mornings when they didn’t－but with messengers frequently coming and going on the status of the capital, the two usually avoided anything more intimate than that.

But that sort of intimacy isn’t what he’s missed－it’s this, when he can rest his forehead against her hair with a tired, telling sigh and simply hold her without disturbance. Byleth reaches up to stroke his cheek without comment, aware that he’ll speak when he’s ready.

“I don’t know whether I could have held my head high today if not for you,” he remarks at length, unmoving. “Thank you for supporting me… through all of this.” With her at his side, facing his past isn’t quite so terrifying.

“Are you holding up okay?”

That question makes him pause. He’s so used to reflexively answering _yes_ that he needs a moment to deduce just what he’s feeling and how to phrase it.

“All things considered, yes,” Dimitri replies slowly. “There is… much on my mind, is all. I can hardly believe it’s been less than a day since we arrived.” He sighs again, very lightly, against her hair. 

He can’t recall the last time he processed so many emotions in such a short span of time—joy at being home again, shame for having ever left it, relief after reclaiming it, shock and humility at his warm reception, a bit of anxiety upon realizing how much work there is to be done… and, overshadowing all of it, the cloud of grief and doubt that rears its head the instant Dimitri has a moment to himself.

It’s exhausting. He’s not sure how well he would bear such a burden alone.

“Do you want to talk about any of it?” Byleth prods gently.

It’s tempting, but Dimitri quickly refutes the thought. It’s not something he should keep to himself forever, he knows, and he has no intention of doing so—but he has enough guilt and self-deprecating denial warring inside him as it is. It feels wrong to entertain the potential of Cornelia’s words so soon, especially when he only just returned from his parents’ graves.

“Another time, perhaps,” he answers finally. “There is little use in debating mere conjecture.”

So he says, but he’s sure he’ll continue to do so silently.

“Okay.” Byleth’s acceptance is simple, but he detects the respectful implication in her tone. She’ll be here whenever he’s ready.

“But I hope I didn’t place too much pressure on you.” He manages a lighter tone as he sets his chin on her hair. “I didn’t think you’d be pestered quite so much on the first day.”

“It’s alright. You did warn me,” she reminds him.

Dimitri presses a smile to the top of her head. Unsurprisingly, she’s as unflappable as always. He knew it wouldn’t take long for the gossip around Garreg Mach to spread like wildfire here, as well, but it probably didn’t help matters that Byleth has rarely been away from his side since they stepped foot inside the city. He has little doubt that observant eyes noticed he was content to sit on the outskirts of the festivities and converse almost exclusively with her.

Even without his influence, Byleth’s name already made its rounds as the army’s top tactician, the wielder of the Sword of the Creator, and a terrifying force to behold in battle. The mystery of her exact relationship with the prince of Faerghus－which he sidestepped, somewhat spitefully, again and again despite the pointed looks and roundabout questioning from nosier lords who were itching to cast judgment already－merely makes her that much more interesting.

“You don’t have to keep it a secret for my sake,” she told him at one point, after Dimitri failed to indulge one of his former advisors’ curiosity.

“Nor you,” he answered with a confident smile. “But I would spare you the pettier side of the nobility for as long as I’m able. I’m sure such talk would roll right off your shoulders, but…” His mouth grew a little tight. “You are under no obligation to explain yourself to anyone.”

At present, Dimitri just shakes his head lightly. “Even so… I feel as though I didn’t warn you enough, back at the start of things.”

Byleth turns around, tilting her head back and hugging his waist. “It doesn’t matter if you did or not. It wouldn’t have changed my mind about anything.”

A shy smile tugs at his lips. As usual, she doesn’t hold back, and she knows just what to say to put his mind at ease. She knows him well.

As he looks over her gentle expression, however, he realizes it’s more than that. She notices the stare and tilts her head. “Dimitri?”

“I’m sorry—I was just thinking that… you have taught me something important.”

“What would that be?”

“How should I put this… Perhaps it is most accurate to say that… you taught me how to live.” He brushes her hair back from her shoulder. “If you and I had not reunited on that fateful day, I am certain I would have died a fruitless death on the battlefield. I would have foolishly challenged a horde of foes and, in doing so, needlessly sacrificed the lives of my friends and myself.”

Byleth watches him coolly. Her arms tighten around him just slightly.

“But also before then, in our days at the academy… no, before then, even. I think part of the reason I was so taken with you was because you challenged my view of the world—you taught me to look at things differently. And then… Well, eventually, you became one of my reasons for living.” He cups her face and she leans into it, her eyes still on his. “I struggle with what to say,” he murmurs apologetically, “when I know well that words are not enough to express my gratitude.”

Words aren’t even enough to express all that she’s done for him. Even if he possessed the most silver of tongues, he could never do her justice—not all that she’s done, nor all that she is. In the end, he settles for telling her softly,

“You saved me from the darkness… and guided me back to the light. Thank you, Byleth.” He holds her face in both hands now, with as much care as he can muster. He touches his forehead to hers and closes his eye. “With all that I am, I thank you,” he breathes.

Her small hands press against his shoulder blades. Her breath is warm. “Thank _you_ ,” she counters, “for not giving up on yourself.”

Even that is to her credit, Dimitri could argue, but he keeps the thought to himself. Instead he only kisses the tip of her nose—and looks at her with concern. “You’re quite cold.”

She reclines against the wall at her back and pulls him with her, the charming quirk of her mouth speaking her intention even before her fingers slip deftly into his hair. “Help me get warmer.”

As modest as they’ve been since that night in her room weeks ago, there’s plenty of pent up passion to fulfill her request. Their kiss starts off heated. His hands begin to wander as she winds one leg around his. He wonders why, in hindsight, he wore his full armor tonight.

It occurs to him to suggest they take this elsewhere—somewhere warmer, more private—but taking his mouth off of hers long enough to say so proves to be a challenge. When she nips at his lip, and then soothes it with the very tip of her tongue before pushing into his mouth, all thoughts of speech leave him entirely. He presses flush against her, touching her more boldly in that way she likes. Her hold on him tightens. He gives the back of her thigh a tender squeeze and she hums—which is perhaps why neither of them hears the hurried footsteps.

“Your Highness! I finally found—you—”

They both quickly look up to see the soldier frozen midstep. There’s a startled look on his face. It’s clear he has no idea what the protocol for such an interruption is.

After an awkward moment he recovers, straightening his posture so that he can bow low and give the two of them the instant required to untangle from each other. “My apologies, Your Highness,” he blurts quickly, “I didn’t—”

“It’s alright.” Dimitri clears his throat. “I am sorry for slipping away. Has something happened?”

The soldier straightens up again, his eyes directed skyward. “An express messenger just arrived from the leader of the Alliance. Please return to the castle at once!”

The mood in the air instantly dissipates. Dimitri and Byleth exchange looks.

“I am on my way.”

* * *

It’s well past midnight when they finally retire. One of the servants thoughtfully started the fireplace despite Dimitri forgetting to request it, so his bedroom is pleasantly warm when he and Byleth arrive. He hears her small, relieved sigh as they leave the drafty chill of the corridor behind.

His room must have been cleaned, as well. Everything is as he left it years ago, but there isn’t a spot of dust to be seen. Even his wardrobe has been updated with items of casual wear, some eagle-eyed servant having guessed—accurately, by the looks of it—at his growth. Doubtlessly he’ll have to go through some fittings for new public attire—he files that away as yet another to-do on his already mile-long list—but for now he appreciates the thoughtful gesture of his staff.

He turns back to Byleth, about to apologize for neglecting her evening wear, only to lose his voice as he finds her already half-undressed. As he watches, she drops her shorts and sits on the edge of his bed to peel off her leggings. Her motions are automatic; she doesn’t spare him a glance.

It’s nothing new—even when camping in cold climates, she tends to sleep in only her shorts and undershirt and bury herself under her blankets—but it’s the first time she’s doing so _here._

Shutting his mouth, Dimitri turns away again to resume removing his armor.

He imagined this very scenario more than once during their days at the academy. Usually late at night and always with a sense of guilt. While this isn’t quite what he envisioned then—they aren’t married, for one—the fact of the matter is that they are here, together, still very much in love and very much alone.

By the time he shrugs out of his undershirt, he’s found his voice again. “I apologize for having nothing prepared for you. If you’d like a change of clothes, you are more than welcome to any of mine.”

“That might be best.”

Dimitri nearly jumps when he hears her right behind him. She’s as silent as a cat on her bare feet.

“Mine could use a wash after that battle,” she points out.

“Oh—right. Of course. Please, help yourself.” He moves aside to let her peruse the wardrobe, inwardly frowning at himself. Goddess, why is he acting like that nervous, lovestruck teenager all over again?

Byleth moves away to change and Dimitri makes quick work of finishing up. It’s a bit of a relief when she breaks the silence and his wandering thoughts.

“How long do you think preparations will take?”

“It’s mostly a matter of compiling supplies and relocating soldiers,” he replies as he tugs on a clean shirt. “If need be, we can arrange to have the additional forces join us as we march south. I will need to speak with Gilbert and some of the local lords tomorrow, but I would estimate a week at most.”

“More late nights, then,” she surmises. He hears the smile in her voice.

“Unfortunately. We should enjoy resting up tonight while we still—” He looks at Byleth and again his voice fails him. She chose one of his older shirts— _just_ a shirt. The sleeves swallow her arms but everything else about it is positively indecent, from the low neck exposing the generous swell of her breasts to the bottom only barely brushing the tops of her thighs. Her firm nipples are easily noticeable through the thin fabric.

She notices his stare—she would have to be blind not to—and the smile that slowly breaks over her soft lips is no less enticing than the rest of her.

“Dimitri.”

It’s playfully admonishing, an unspoken question.

His gaze drops—sweeping down over her bare legs in the process—as he clears his throat and feigns straightening his sleeve around his wrist.

“I’m—sorry, I…” No excuse comes to mind. Probably because he isn’t actually sorry.

Byleth knows it. She moves closer and runs her hands up his arms, featherlight but scorching even through his sleeves. “What are you thinking?” she wonders softly. Just the curious tilt of her head makes his pulse pound harder in his ears.

Dimitri catches her hands on their way back down. He holds her heavy gaze. “That you’re unbelievably beautiful,” he replies in the same tone.

Her mesmerizing smile quirks slightly. “I was thinking the same about you.”

The rush of heat in his blood is rapidly changing course—partly for his face, mostly towards his hips. He’s not sure how to answer that compliment.

She saves him the trouble by leaning into his chest. She’s so soft and warm—

“You’re right, though. We should rest while we’re able.” Her voice is level and reasonable. The look in her eyes and the way her calf rubs against his suggests otherwise.

“The… night is long,” Dimitri reasons, doing his best to sound casual, but he nearly winces at how thin his voice comes out. The answer pleases Byleth, however, who drapes her arms around his neck. That’s all the permission he needs to lean down and kiss her.

Just that simple gesture nearly stirs up a whine deep in his chest. Her touch has always felt amazing, but since reuniting after their years apart it’s become almost overwhelming—it’s so warm, so loving, so attentive and meant to please. All the things Dimitri doesn’t deserve but craves all the same. After denying himself—of anything—for so long, Byleth can make him weak without hardly trying; he would fall to his knees in an instant if she willed it.

But she of course demands nothing so extreme. She simply purrs her pleasure at the touch of his mouth, his hands, his body, as though his clumsy, desperate ministrations are anywhere near as heavenly as her own. The idea that he can make her ache, melt, even _beg_ with his touch just as she does to him seems utterly ludicrous in his mind, and yet her moans and her whispers and her body don’t lie. Even now, just moments into a hungry kiss, she’s already flushed with desire and searching for the skin beneath his shirt with eager hands.

He only needs one hand beneath her rear to pick her up, the other cupping her head to keep her mouth against his. Her small squeak of surprise is a new sound—he adores it immediately—and her strong legs wrap around his waist as he carries her over to the large bed.

Even when he lays her down, Byleth doesn’t let go. She keeps his hips pinned to hers, breathing sharply as she catches his growing erection between her shapely thighs. Her hands fumble for the edge of his shirt and Dimitri helps her, and _Goddess above_ he will never understand nor tire of the look on her face as she takes in the sight of him. Even now, she isn’t the most expressive person alive, but he recognizes admiration in her face when he sees it, the awe and the desire. Her hands wander over his marred skin slowly, appreciatively—and there’s that puzzling praise again, spilling from her lips as easily as breathing.

“You’re so lovely, Dimitri.” Her hips shift and the friction makes them both breathe in sharply. Her shirt has ridden up on her belly and he realizes with a jolt of lust that she isn’t wearing anything underneath it. “I’ve always thought so.”

Hands braced on either side of her, he cautiously meets the next roll of her hips with his own. A tendril of sensation races up his spine, making his fingers clench in the blankets. His breath is already ragged.

Byleth continues to admire his chest with her fingers and words. “Your scars don’t bother me. They never have.” She traces his muscles, drawing lines in the grooves. “You’ve gotten stronger. Bigger, too. I noticed.” Another lazy thrust; her breath hitches and she actually _stammers._ “I—I like watching you move. Even in battle… you look so confident,” she whispers. “It makes me want you so badly. Everything about you makes me feel so—”

He hates to cut her off but he can’t stay away from her mouth any longer. He kisses her, hard and deep and messy, pinning her against the mattress. She matches his fervor until his lips sting and she still manages to moan his name, hissed and heated and _wanting_. They break just long enough to get her shirt off and just the sight of her skin laid bare is enough to make him groan—growl, almost—his cock fully hard and aching in his pants.

Dimitri finally moves from her mouth to her throat, rolling her skin between his lips a little too eagerly and leaving it bright red. That unnatural honesty of hers that he loves so much keeps going—in a thick, breathless voice she confesses to being aroused when watching him fight, to touching herself to the thought of him once only to be disappointed because he does it so much better—

He gropes her breast in one hand while the other moves to palm the junction of her legs and finds her soaked. She wants him so _badly_ —him, of all people, by some miracle. That knowledge alone is intoxicating. She moans and grinds against his hand, hissing when his thumb finds her clit. He rubs circles into it and she arches towards him as she presses him harder into her neck, her low cries making her shudder in his mouth.

When she starts clumsily untying his pants, it cuts through his haze of blazing want to let him think a little more clearly.

Dimitri withdraws his hand. Byleth gasps, growls, and he presses an apologetic kiss to her parted lips. 

“Byleth… when all of this is over...” His voice comes out lower, huskier than usual as he touches his forehead to hers. “I want to come back here with you… and make love to you.”

Her panting goes still for an instant. He drags his knuckles down her toned stomach, and then brushes her thighs apart a little more with a finger.

“But until then...” He kisses her neck again. Then her collarbone, her chest, her stomach, down across the dip of her abdomen to suck lightly on her hip bone. The scent of her is _strong_. Even without the promise of taste, his mouth waters for the first time in years. “Will you let me please you as best I can?”

She stares down at him for a long moment. If he didn’t know her as well as he does, her silence and her blank face would be concerning. He just presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of her thigh as he holds her gaze. He feels her shiver.

“I want all of you, Dimitri.” She strokes his hair. He tilts his head up to nuzzle her hand and she smiles, fond and trusting. “And anything you want to give me.”

He kisses her palm. When his gaze moves down between her legs, she fidgets slightly—impatient or shy or aroused, he can’t tell, but seeing her react before he even touches her...

He runs his hand down her calf, murmuring, “Pull your knees up a bit.”

She does so. Dimitri settles on his chest below her and props her thighs against his shoulders. His breath fans against her and she hums, legs gripping his head briefly before relaxing again.

Byleth leans up on her elbows to watch him. She bites her lip as he parts her folds of sensitive skin with his fingers, exposing more of her to his gaze and the open air. She isn’t sure which triggers the quiet whimper in her throat.

Without warning or preamble, he leans into her with his open mouth.

The shock of his boldness hits her just as hard as the sensation. She nearly chokes on her gasp as her head snaps back, and the high-pitched sound that escapes her lips is unlike any she’s ever heard or made.

He works his lips against her, over her, stroking and kissing, gently sucking, undeterred by how wet she’s become. When his tongue drags against her, hot and heavy and slow, she shoves a knuckle in her mouth to suppress a shout.

Her other hand fists in his hair. Even when a particularly sharp spike of pleasure makes her yank on it, Dimitri continues at his same easy pace. Her hips start rocking against him without her realizing it.

Right as Byleth thinks it can’t get anymore intense, he pins her hips to the bed and plunges deeper, his lips locking tight around her clit.

She cries out—maybe his name, maybe no words at all—and only his strong hands keep her in place as her body convulses. She bites down on two fingers now, choking back her moans, and sees red behind her eyelids as he suckles at her weakest spot. The tautness between her hips is excruciating, that breathtaking sensation right before it snaps—

Suddenly he takes his mouth off her. The buildup fades and she nearly cries out in frustration. Through blurry eyes she watches him prop her hips up easily in his hands.

“This isn’t the academy,” Dimitri pants, low and deep. His breath teases her wet skin but it’s not enough, not _nearly_ enough. “You don’t have to keep quiet.”

It takes her a few seconds to think clearly and catch on to what he’s suggesting—no, what he’s asking.

Byleth lets out a shaky sound that’s either a chuckle or a moan or both. “You want me to be loud for you?” Her hand eases up on his hair and shakes as she cups his face. Her mischievous smile is more steady as she looks at him, his face flushed and lips glistening and single pupil dilated with desire. “Give me the order.”

Something dark takes his expression, a glimpse of the side of him she rarely sees, that only ever rears its head when she coaxes it out of him. His grip on her tightens and it stings but feels _good_ and she’s almost lightheaded from that alone.

“Let me hear you, Byleth.” His voice is low, commanding, and the air of pseudo-intimidation there is more alluring than she can put into words. She almost wants to disobey, just to see what he’ll do—if his grip will get tighter or his tone more threatening—but then he speaks again and she already knows she stands no chance.

“Scream for me.”

He explored her before. Now he _devours_ her.

There’s no rhythm to his motions, only unbridled enthusiasm. He isn’t too rough, but he’s constant, and he earns every shout and moan she makes. She lets her voice run loud and free, letting him know exactly what he does to her.

He pushes what she assumes is a finger into her—until she realizes his hands are still preoccupied on her sides. His _tongue_ makes a sweeping stroke inside her, soft and warm and delightfully flexible. Her muscles clench weakly around him once, not quite there but desperate to be. He withdraws just long enough to swallow, panting hard and heavy, and then ravages her again.

Her ankles cross behind his back as the pressure builds back up to its peak, until she’s wound so tight that she can only give soft grunts in response to the hungry pushes and strokes of his tongue.

“Louder,” he growls, and the buzz of his voice against her is more stimulation than she can take. Byleth squeezes him between her thighs, her hands scrabbling numbly to clutch at his as she shudders and shouts his name, one for each bolt of pleasure that shakes her to her core.

She’s not sure when he makes his way back up to her, but when her senses gradually trickle back in she finds him snug against her side. It takes her a moment more to notice that he’s nuzzling her hair and rubbing her hip, suddenly as mild and unassuming as he was aggressive and domineering just moments ago.

Once her body goes slack, Byleth drags herself onto her side to lean into his chest. She’s glad that he holds her there with a loose hug.

“I wasn’t… prepared for that,” she admits. Her voice is thin.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a little doubtfully.

“Mm. Very. I just…” She lets out a heavy breath, and then looks up at him with a crooked smile. “You really did surprise me this time.”

Dimitri breathes a low laugh that makes her skin tingle. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

Byleth snorts softly as she leans into him again. “Give me a minute,” she murmurs.

“Rest as long as you like.” He kisses the top of her head reassuringly—as if his erection isn’t extremely obvious where it presses into her stomach.

Humming, she wraps her hand around it in a weak grip. His body reacts immediately with an eager twitch as he grunts.

“Not too long,” she promises.

As spent as she feels, her desire to return the favor spurns her into recovering a little faster. Her limbs still feel light and unsteady when she sits up a moment later, but she can still push him onto his back and slide into place on his knees. One hand starts to pump him slowly, the other admiring his toned thighs in glancing brushes of her fingertips.

“Where did you learn to use your mouth like that?” she wonders. She’s curious, but it’s also an excuse to hear the strain of arousal in his voice.

“No-Nowhere specifically,” Dimitri stammers. “I just—thought to try it—that way. I know what you… how you like to be touched, so…”

Byleth tilts her head with a fond smile. “You do,” she agrees, making sure to sound pleased. “I’m not sure I’ll be as effective, but…” She looks down at the thick shaft in her fingers. She wasn’t deaf to the campfire-side talk among her mercenary allies, or even that of some Kingdom soldiers more recently; she has an idea of what she can do to please him in return. She just wonders whether he’s larger than average or she has a particularly small mouth, because the idea doesn’t exactly strike her as comfortable as she gauges the size difference between the two.

Even so—

“...You can tell me what you like,” she finishes as she catches his eye. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she leans forward and takes the head of his cock between her lips.

It’s not as nice as kissing other parts of him, but his reactions are well worth it: he pants as she strokes him, moans when she sucks, and just about comes undone when she fondles the very tip with her tongue. Both of her hands pump him now, matching the steady pace of her mouth. A couple times he starts to roll his hips towards her only to catch himself partway. It isn’t long before he grinds out,

“Byleth— _please_ —”

She tilts her head and licks a quick stripe from base to tip. His whole body shudders and he groans sharply. “Please what?” she asks. It isn’t a tease.

Fumbling, Dimitri strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. Judging by how the other is twisted hard in the blankets, he doesn’t trust himself to touch her directly.

“I want—more of you. Faster,” he croaks.

“Alright,” she breathes.

Byleth braces her hands on his hips and shifts as much of her weight to them as she can. There’s no way she can actually hold him down, but the thought of him spearing her throat with that strength of his is more worrying than sexy. Another time, maybe, once she knows what she’s doing and how to take him. For now—

“Try not to move too much,” she tells him. She waits until he manages an affirmative response, and then she lowers her head, slowly, to take in more of him.

It seems like her throat tightens in objection in no time at all, but there’s a note of satisfaction in the way he moans next. She pulls back, lowers again, and repeats, until she finds a mostly comfortable rhythm of bobbing her head. His sounds are wonderful, already stirring up heat inside her again as he groans and pants.

She spares one hand to stroke where her mouth can’t reach, her tongue rubbing against him. When she moans around him, Dimitri snarls her name and his hips twitch—barely, but it still strikes his cock against the back of her throat hard enough to burn and make her gag. Barely holding back a cough, Byleth blinks through watery eyes and drags her lips back to the head, where she moans once more. Again he twists her name with a desperate aggression that makes her ache for his touch all over again.

His skin looks soft beneath its sheen of sweat, his taut muscles solid and emphasizing the plethora of scars that mark them all over. His broad chest heaves with labored breaths and Byleth wishes she could be all over him at once, touching and being touched—but for now she settles for running a hand down his abs, her short nails scratching lightly, as she continues to suck him dry.

There’s no warning this time: another groan and suddenly he empties his lust in her mouth, some of it spurting straight down her throat as she picks the absolute worst time to inhale. She breaks away coughing and spluttering, her eyes and nose burning.

Dimitri’s warm hands hold her shoulders. “Are you alright? I’m so sorry—”

Byleth nods as she continues to hack, trying to wave him away. “It—It’s okay,” she manages hoarsely. “It was just—a lot,” she squeaks out before falling into another coughing fit. Dimitri rubs her back soothingly. After a minute more of catching her breath and swallowing to clear her throat, she finally nods again to signal she’s alright. “It just caught me off guard, sorry. I’m alright.”

He breathes a weary, embarrassed sort of laugh. “You’ve... nothing to apologize for,” he says shyly. “I assure you.”

The two of them recline in a comfortable tangle. Their hands and mouths wander lazily, eager but in no rush. Even with the fireplace going, it doesn’t take long for their hot skins to cool as the cold of Faerghus finds a way in through the thick walls. Huddled up against Dimitri’s warm side, Byleth finds it to be a nice balance.

Eventually, she pulls back to see his face.

“So… you want to make love to me, hm?”

Despite everything, Dimitri manages to flush slightly—but he doesn’t look away or falter when he answers quietly, “Yes... For a long time now.”

She trails her fingers along his collarbone. “You’d prefer to wait?”

He takes a deep, slow breath as his eye wanders thoughtfully to the side. “In a perfect world, no. However…” He tenderly brings her hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “As things are… and as things have yet to be, I…”

Tugging their hands back to her, Byleth mimics his gesture and kisses his scarred knuckles. “You’re leading a war,” she surmises for him. Her tone is as sympathetic as her tired smile. “I understand. And I agree.”

Dimitri nods lightly, his own smile small but grateful. “Thank you. Truly, the Goddess herself must marvel at how patient you continue to be with me.”

_Patient_ probably isn’t the word Sothis would use, but Byleth keeps that to herself. She just pushes herself up to straddle him, and then lies forward on his chest so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“That’s because you’ve always been worth waiting for,” she says simply.

He huffs softly against her lips just before she kisses him. While she starts off gentle and slow, there’s something deeper on his end, almost desperate like the embrace he quickly winds around her. Byleth meets his enthusiasm, glad to leave tomorrow and the war out of mind for a little while longer.

As Dimitri said, it isn’t a perfect world—but for now, they can pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patricia drama comes later. Tonight they are happy 😤


	14. Chapter 14

Byleth wakes to a dark room and an empty bed. It takes her a moment to remember why that’s strange.

She sits up and squints at the darkness. The door to the balcony is open, which explains the strong smell of sea salt. She rubs the sleep from her eyes as she slides out of bed, absently tugging at her bunched tunic to straighten it out, and makes her way across the room almost soundlessly, until she steps into the doorway and the flood of moonlight.

Dimitri has his bare back to her, hands on the railing and arms spread to support his weight. It looks like he’s been there a while. Before Byleth can speak, he detects her presence and turns. His mild surprise quickly melts into concern.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to leave it open for so long. I apologize if I let a draft in.”

She leans against the doorframe. “Everything okay?” Her tone is casual but her eyes are searching－for tension in his shoulders, shadows under his eyes, tautness in his face, anything that might suggest his nightmares stirred him again.

“I’m afraid the abrupt shift from Faerghus to Derdriu left me little time to adjust between climates. I needed the fresh air.” His smile is crooked and sheepish as he holds out a hand. Byleth moves closer to take it, laughing softly when he immediately pulls her into an embrace.

She leans into his warm chest with a hum. For a long moment it’s simply this, until Dimitri starts running a hand up and down her back in that slow, gentle way she’s come to recognize as meaning that he’s thinking.

It’s been a slow pace, but it seems as though he’s gradually shaking free of his idea of _not deserving_ things, or at least her. He’s still modest and limits most of his affections to when they’re alone, but ever since Fhirdiad he’s been less hesitant to initiate contact with her. His touches are more confident, more frequent, and his conscientious gentleness feels more natural, like it used to, and less like he’s constantly worried about scaring her away.

“But I admit,” he speaks up finally, “with so much on my mind, it’s difficult to relax. The ever-growing list of tasks to be done is… distracting, to say the least.”

“Is that all it is?”

He hesitates. She waits. He takes his time in pulling back and by then his cheer has faded. “No,” he says simply, quietly. It takes him another moment to manage, “Arundel’s words before he died… As cryptic as they were, I...”

Dimitri surprised her earlier. She thought his stubborn denial regarding his stepmother’s involvement was genuine and firm—and yet his outburst during the battle betrayed his doubt. It sounded as though he was open to the possibility, even fearful of it.

He sighs, short and sharp. “I don’t know if discussing my thoughts will be of any use. I only have questions, no answers.”

“If you think it will help, that’s reason enough,” she says gently.

He brushes her bangs aside, his good eye distant. His hand falls away with a deep, silent breath, and then he looks out over the calm waters in the distance for nearly a minute before speaking.

“To be honest… I am afraid, Byleth. Not of the truth, but what comes after.” Dimitri withdraws from her, leaning back against the rail. He crosses his arms loosely. “Even now, the very thought that my stepmother might have been involved… it’s…” His fingers dig into his biceps. His voice remains calm, but there's a subtle vein of rage to his words that gives them an edge and makes them tremble just slightly. “It’s enough to make me think terrible things.”

He drops his narrowed gaze to the ground. “Just thinking about it, I’m already filled with the very anger I’m trying to leave behind. If I learn the truth, and it’s more than I…” Another sigh, but this one sounds tired, almost defeated. “I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to handle it. I’m… afraid of betraying what Rodrigue died for, and everything you went through to save me.” His voice wavers. “I’m afraid the voices of the dead will finally drown out everything, and I won’t be able to—”

Byleth places her hands on his arms. She waits for his nervous gaze to finally settle on hers and she holds it, steadfast and calm and hoping it rubs off on him.

She tries to picture what he’s feeling. She tries to imagine learning that Jeralt wasn’t the man she thought him to be, the most steadfast presence in her life turning out to be the root of so much pain and misery. She tries to understand that crippling sense of betrayal—and she can’t.

She can’t begin to imagine how suffocating that weight must be.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being angry,” she says finally, slowly. “Or afraid. And I don’t think you’re going to backslide because of it, Dimitri.”

His stare is so intense it hurts, because she can tell he’s desperately hanging onto her words. He wants to believe her.

She reaches up to take his warm face in her hands. He breathes in sharply.

“No matter how loud they are, they can’t tell you what to believe. Only you can decide that, and we both know you already have.” She smiles faintly, tenderly at him. “You’re in charge of your life. Remember that and you won’t lose yourself. That’s what _I_ believe.”

Dimitri’s face softens. He places his hands over hers, holding them there as his breaths slow and his posture relaxes, bit by bit. Again Byleth waits, letting him move at his own pace.

Eventually, he nods—agreement, or just assuring her he’s alright—and Byleth takes his hands between hers to hold them.

“If you need me to remind you of that… Or if you ever feel overwhelmed, you can tell me. I’ll stay with you until you feel better,” she promises.

He looks uncertain at first, or maybe just guilty that he needs this from her, but finally he nods again. “Thank you.”

* * *

After that, Dimitri is okay for the most part. He has a few sleepless nights during their march back to Garreg Mach, but when planning for the assault on Fort Merceus takes precedence shortly afterwards, he resumes working himself to exhaustion as he usually does. If nothing else, it’s the distraction he needs. Other than the usual nightmares jarring him awake on occasion, he seems steady.

Weeks later the fort is taken, and with it comes Margrave Gautier’s message about the prisoner involved in the Tragedy.

Despite how calmly Dimitri appears to take it, Byleth notices his shift immediately. They hold a council with the usual knights and soldiers not an hour later—and even as they calmly discuss the army’s next move and the state of the Empire, beneath the table he’s grasping Byleth’s hand as his own shakes, the corners of his mouth tight.

* * *

“Are you okay?”

When Dimitri doesn’t react for a long moment, Byleth begins to fear that his voices have returned in full force. The energy radiating from him is different than before, but the scene of him standing so still and quiet here in the dark cathedral is uncomfortably familiar. Her hands tighten anxiously into fists at her sides, but she waits.

“No,” he answers at last. “I cannot say that I am.” Even those few words say a lot. He isn’t brushing the matter off to reassure her, but he isn’t pushing her away. His voice is heavy, but not angry.

Unexpectedly, he turns to her and inquires, “Tell me… how well do you remember your father?”

The question is a little jarring, bringing back the shadow of guilt that’s reared its head now and again. With all that’s happened in the last few months, there have been times when Byleth went days without thinking of Jeralt in any capacity. The realization always stings, always makes her feel as though she’s neglecting those memories when she should be clinging to them as tightly as she can, lest they fade away as completely as the rest of her life before meeting Dimitri.

She considers thoroughly before answering.

“Not as well as I would like.” With her eyes on the floor, she doesn’t see Dimitri’s expression.

“I figured as much.” There’s more bitterness than sympathy there. “Even the memory of those who pass away is taken from those they left behind. Little by little. Year by year.”

Byleth glances up and finds his stare distant, fixed absently on some spot in the air. She wonders what he’s recalling in his memory, or whose face he might see. It’s not like him to be so blunt and gruff with her now; perhaps he isn’t speaking to her at all.

“To be honest,” he says slowly, “I cannot really remember my stepmother's… that woman's smile. Nor the sound of her voice. I always told myself that I would not allow my mind to forget. And yet… all I can recall with clarity is her gazing away, so forlorn.”

His arms fall to his sides as he turns to her, but there’s something hollow in the look. “Did my stepmother wish to go home so badly that she would kill Father and me… kill her false family? Home,” he murmurs with a wince, his gaze roaming restlessly, “to her own blood. Her true family.”

The impulse is there to be optimistic, to point out that they still know so little of the truth, but Byleth refrains. She’s not sure it’s wise to give him false hope, especially if his suspicions are eventually confirmed.

“There’s no way to know for sure,” she says gently.

Dimitri draws a deep breath, nodding slightly. “I suppose it doesn't make any difference now. I am asking you questions you could not possibly know the answer to.” He frowns, but briefly, and his posture relaxes as he sighs. “I am finished with thoughts like that. I am finally able to go on living without clinging to hate.”

His eye looks clearer, sharper. More focused. “If I truly treasure those who have died, then I must earnestly atone for my sins. Father, Glenn, all of the soldiers who have fallen... The people of Duscur who still suffer persecution… The only atonement I can offer them now is to take responsibility for this broken Kingdom that has been entrusted to me.”

Byleth smiles, pleased and relieved to hear his conviction from his own mouth. She can’t imagine the Dimitri of the past keeping his head on straight like this. Even five years ago, he would have gone from his pleasant smile to tearing that prisoner’s head from his shoulders in a heartbeat, to say nothing of his ruthlessness more recently. To see him curbing his emotion, hearing him speak of the dead as a memory rather than a burden, of atonement rather than vengeance—there was a time when she might not have believed it possible.

And yet, despite being happy for him, his words stick out to her like a thorn. _Take responsibility for the Kingdom._

That’s always been his calling, but her younger self never really stopped to consider what it meant. She was content to live in the present and his remarks about the future were always optimistic.

Now she wonders—with the country and the Kingdom in such a state, there’s no doubt that Dimitri will need all the support and help he can get. He deserves to have someone by his side to help him bear the enormous burden of ruling and rebuilding, someone who can do so with confidence.

For the first time, Byleth isn’t sure she’s fit for that role.

* * *

It’s tempting to retreat somewhere to himself after the meeting with Edelgard, but Dimitri stifles the urge. Isolation will mean too much time to think, and too much thinking will lead to more regrets, more doubt, more distractions. There will be time for that, but the day before their assault on Enbarr isn’t it.

As they make their way back to camp, his only remark to Byleth at first is a word of thanks for accompanying him. A couple minutes later, Dimitri suddenly stops.

She turns back. “Dimitri?”

“What did you think of Edelgard’s words?” he asks. “Her way of thinking?”

Byleth’s face is hard to read as she stares at him. She didn’t say a word through that whole conversation, nor offer her thoughts on it after.

“I don’t think she’s right,” she says finally, “but I don’t think she’s completely wrong, either.” She shifts her weight, glancing aside thoughtfully. “I understand her intentions. She’s… harsh in the way she goes about it, but I think she really does mean well in the end. Or… maybe it’s more accurate to say that I probably would have agreed with her, once.”

Dimitri says nothing, but she must read something in his face or posture that gives away his surprise.

“At best, she’s sacrificing the few for the many—in the long run,” she goes on. “At the worst, she’s weeding out those who are weak now in order to make sure everyone is strong in the future she wants to create. Either way, more victims now means less victims later. If you look only at the numbers, it makes sense. But… I think you were right, too. Forcing people to believe or not believe something in the name of freedom…” She shakes her head slowly. “That doesn’t sound like freedom at all. It’s just one person’s idea of it. Even if the intentions are good, blindly following one leader’s ideals is… It just seems like it’s the kind of mindset that got the world to where it is now.”

After a pause, she shrugs. “I’m… no leader, Dimitri.” A hint of a frown passes over her lips. “But I know the kind of person I want to follow. Even if you and I had never started the way we did… I like to think things wouldn’t be too different between us now, regardless.”

Despite her positive way of thinking, the thought is… an unpleasant one. What if they never met that fateful day in Faerghus? What if Jeralt’s company happened to take a job further south and their paths never crossed until Garreg Mach? Given the same choice, would Byleth still have chosen the Blue Lion house? Would she have turned her back on Edelgard’s ideals? Or were chance circumstances all that prevented her and Dimitri from ultimately standing opposite each other in this conflict?

He shoves the thought aside. It’s no use thinking that way.

“I agree. I feel as though I would have been drawn to you in any life, circumstances aside.” He smiles. “Perhaps you have not realized it, but you’ve been a guide to me and to others so many times… I do not think anyone would doubt you as a leader. But for you to follow me would suggest you walk behind me. That has never been the case.” Drawing close, he takes hold of her hand. As always, it’s warm even through his gloves. “You have guided me, supported me—carried me, at times—but never followed.”

Byleth looks down at their hands. A warm smile plays likewise at her mouth.

More solemnly, Dimitri continues, “Thank you for giving me your thoughts. If you would, answer me honestly on this, as well: do you believe my own way of thinking to be naive?” When she looks at him, Dimitri shakes his head. “My path is chosen. I know what I believe. But I am far from perfect, and I will make a poor leader myself if I do not seek to be open-minded and improve. I also think Edelgard’s methods to be in the wrong, but I understand the corruption of which she speaks, as well as her hatred for it. Considering all she is willing to sacrifice for her cause… not just the lives of others, but parts of herself, as well, I imagine—” The parts he grew close to once, the parts he loved— “—I wonder if my conviction is as shortsighted as she thinks it is.”

Byleth’s grip tightens. “You both want the same thing. The difference is your faith in people. Even if you think you’re too trusting, you’re giving people the chance to change and do their part. I don’t know if it’s naive,” she admits, “but I do think it’s right.”

It pleases Dimitri to hear her say so, but he turns her words over in light of everything else she’s said. “...It would be arrogant to believe my ideals are completely without error. Perhaps having you by my side to remind me of that is where Edelgard and I truly diverge in our paths.”

Or perhaps Edelgard recognized the flaws in her ideology long ago, and merely accepted them as inevitable.

Again the temptation rises—to wonder, to regret—but this time it’s Byleth who does away with it. “I might help you up now and again,” she tells him, “but you’re the one who decided to walk this path. And I’m here because you gave me something to believe in, as well.”

 _Now and again,_ she says. Dimitri isn’t sure whether she’s being modest or she’s truly unaware of just how often her presence and her words have given him the strength to get up and keep going on some days.

He presses his smile briefly to the top of her head. After savoring the private moment a few seconds more, they resume their trek back to the army’s camp.

* * *

They aren’t alone again until late that night, when the last of the knights take their leave after hours of strategic discussion and counsel. Even then, Byleth and Dimitri continue to go over their maps of Enbarr and double, triple check every aspect of the planned battle formations, until they both feel confident they’ve memorized every aspect there is to memorize and planned as well as can be planned for every foreseeable deviation.

The lantern is burning low when Byleth finally voices what they both already know: there’s nothing left to do now but rest and await the battle to come. They make for Dimitri’s tent in silence, but halfway there he asks, “Would you walk with me a bit?”

She’s feeling as restless as he is and she’s glad for the excuse. She nods.

They pass a little ways beyond the camp’s perimeter, to where they can see the faintest outline of Enbarr’s tallest buildings on the horizon. Byleth can sense Dimitri has something to say, so she waits.

It’s not what she expects.

“I’ve made up my mind about that prisoner. Kleiman’s man.” Dimitri’s face is stoic. “I thought about what you said—the differences between Edelgard and myself. It made me think about just what I wish to accomplish with my reign.” He looks down at his hands. “The irony is not lost on me—someone such as I preaching peace and tolerance—but I know the stains of my past don’t have to weigh on my desires for the future. I fight on to protect that vision, after all.”

His arms slide back beneath his cloak, his shoulders tense with an unreleased sigh. “I will not kill him,” he says at last. His voice drops an octave and his eye narrows. Byleth imagines even saying so is a struggle for him. “I will not start my reign by shedding more blood, guilty or no. I am sure I will never forgive him or his conspirators… but I believe he spoke true of the guilt of his sins. He can carry that weight for the rest of his life in a cell—or perhaps he can forgive himself somewhere along the way. It’s up to him in the end, but I will not deny him the chance to make peace with himself.”

He exhales slowly. “If I can manage that bit of mercy, perhaps there is hope for the rest of the decisions I will make.”

Byleth steps closer, smiling gently as she touches his arm. “I think it’s a good decision.”

She would have supported him either way. He deserves that vengeance, surely, but his words ring true and sensible. Were she in his place, she’s not sure which she would choose.

He relaxes under her touch. “Thank you. My feelings aside, there is a chance something will come of it, however small. Even if we never find the masterminds behind that incident, at the very least I hope to one day understand what drove men like that to participate in such a crime. I want to decide for myself whether my father’s way of thinking was right for the Kingdom… and if so, I wish to carry it on in a way that all can agree with. No matter how long it takes.”

Pride blossoms in Byleth’s chest, sharp and warm. She can tell Dimitri isn’t asking for her guidance or approval this time. He’s made up his mind on his own, and in her eyes he’s done so admirably. For all the doubts he’s confessed to her, she’s absolutely positive he’ll be the king this broken country needs.

After a moment more of staring thoughtfully into the distance, Dimitri seems to shake himself back to reality. “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you awake with my rambling—on the eve of such an important battle, no less.”

“It’s alright. I don’t think I’ll sleep for a while yet, anyway.”

“I feel the same.” There’s a comfortable pause. “It is a lovely night… is it not?”

“Mm. It feels… peaceful.” Even the tension in the camp couldn’t shake that feeling on their way here. It’s the calm before the storm, Byleth knows, but she appreciates it all the same.

“It does,” Dimitri agrees, but he’s still looking at her. Byleth pulls her gaze from the stars above to catch his eye with another smile. He’s unnaturally still as if he’s about to say something, but after a few seconds he only reaches to take her left hand in his. “Byleth…”

She watches him curiously. He’s staring at their hands rather intensely, his voice refusing to betray whatever thoughts are on his mind.

Finally, he just covers her hand to cradle it between both of his.

“Byleth,” he says quietly, “if something should happen to me tomorrow—”

Her mouth opens to promise him that nothing will, to go on denying that bleak possibility just as she’s always denied it and fought against it, but his gaze finds hers and her voice catches.

“I want you to know that I will not regret giving my life for this cause.” He studies her eyes. “I would only regret losing you. But the time I’ve spent with you has been more fulfilling than a lifetime without you could ever be.” The lightest of pressures squeezes her fingers, emphasizing his words. “Nothing I say can possibly express how fortunate and blessed I am to have met you. So whether it is at my side or not… I…”

His gaze wavers. Before he can say anything hypocritical, Byleth pulls him down to her and kisses him. He holds her close, a glimpse of uncertainty and desperation in his motions as he kisses her a little harder, a little deeper than her own chaste gesture. She’s not sure whether the looming unknown of tomorrow makes his touch comforting or painful, but she’s glad to drown in it all the same.

“I’ll always stand with you,” she breathes. The whisper is loud in the silence of the forest.

Dimitri’s only response is to hold her tighter.

* * *

The days after the battle for Enbarr are a blur.

Byleth doesn’t remember feeling anything particularly happy during that time. There are plenty of reasons for relief—emerging victorious, suffering few casualties in their own army, finding Rhea alive and mostly well—and she feels no shortage of gratitude for that. There’s still so much work to be done—establishing regents in Enbarr until the Empire is officially indicted as part of the Kingdom, organizing a clean-up effort, determining routes and dividing their forces among them, collecting and redistributing resources, contacting dozens of Faerghus and Alliance lords, to name a few—that she has little time to dwell on anything for long, anyway.

Even so, the bitterness that hangs over their victory is heavier than usual. At times she almost forgets, when she sees her friends’ smiling faces and hears their easy laughter and finds the soldiers the happiest they’ve been. Even the weather seems to approve, giving them day after day of sunlight and warmth that makes work and travel easier.

It’s when night falls that it all comes rushing back. It’s when Dimitri needs her, crawling into bed as all the weight on his shoulders comes crashing down. It’s when he lies awake for hours despite his exhaustion, silent while his thoughts stumble over his grief and regret and doubt. It’s when he jolts awake clutching his injured shoulder and stares hard at Byleth for a long moment before recognizing her.

She’s the only one who knows just how heavy his crown has become, long before it even touches his head.

* * *

One month to the day after Edelgard’s death, Dimitri and Byleth meet in his room at Garreg Mach late one morning. It’s been nearly a week since their return but they’re just as busy as they were in Enbarr, with most of their time together primarily that of the business sort, secondarily what minutes they can spare between working and trying to catch up on rest.

This time is the latter, a half hour set aside to catch their breaths over tea. As Byleth perches her elbows on the table to blow softly on her steaming cup, she announces suddenly,

“Rhea wants me to become the next Archbishop.”

Dimitri nearly snaps the handle on his cup in surprise. “What?” he blurts, momentarily forgetting himself.

She arches her eyebrows in a way that says she’s just as surprised as he is. “Even Seteth agrees, believe it or not. It turns out her time in the Empire took a lot out of her. She’s still pretty weak and isn’t sure when she’ll recover… or if she’ll ever recover enough to resume her position.”

Dimitri frowns in sympathy. “And? What do you think of the offer?”

Byleth doesn’t immediately answer. He tries to read her face but she’s closed it off completely, whether consciously or no. “I actually wanted to hear what you think,” she says finally. “You know me better than anyone. Does it seem like something I could handle?”

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer,” he replies slowly. “While there are some similarities, I imagine the nature of Church and political leadership is very different. I would not want to advise you based solely on my own experience.” He studies her for a moment. “But if I may speak frankly, I believe you can do anything you set your mind to, Byleth. So I wonder—is this something you would _want_ to do?”

She sets her cup on its saucer. Her little finger runs absently along the rim. “I’m not opposed to it. I didn’t always agree with the choices Rhea made, but I think the Church itself is a good thing. As long as it’s managed responsibly, it can bring people together and keep doing a lot of good.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “And… I was thinking—if I was Archbishop… with you as king, it would strengthen relations between the Kingdom and the Church. With Fodlan as it is now, every bit of unity would help.”

He nods. “Undoubtedly.” Leaning forward, he reaches across the small table to place his hand on hers. “But the country aside… do you think you would be happy doing so?” He holds her gaze evenly. “I do not doubt for an instant that you could manage, and I would be glad to know the Church is in capable hands—but I wouldn’t want you putting it before your own happiness.” Perhaps it’s a bit hypocritical of him to say so, but he was born into his role to begin with, raised and prepared for it his entire life. Ruling Faerghus has always coincided with the ideals he wished to incorporate. Byleth has no such obligation other than her own desires. “Or perhaps it is better to ask: what is it you wish to do with your life?”

He never asked her directly. When they first met, she simply didn’t think much of the future. As time went on she spoke of wanting to be with him, but her aspirations were otherwise vague.

“I’ve thought about it now and again,” she admits. “I used to think I’d just be a mercenary forever. When I came to Garreg Mach, I wasn’t sure anymore. Although…” She smiles a little wryly. “I actually thought… being a professor might not be too bad.”

“Truly?” Dimitri chuckles warmly. “Speaking from experience, I think you would make an excellent teacher.”

“Maybe in another life,” she muses. Her smile shrinks, but it stays as she stares at their hands. “But… ultimately, I think what I’ve wanted to do most is help people. Becoming the head of the Church definitely isn’t what I pictured, but that doesn’t mean it’s not for me. I would have Seteth to support me, and Rhea said she would teach me everything I needed until I was comfortable. And… I’m still not sure I believe in fate, but you have to admit it’s ironic.”

“...You refer to your connection with the Goddess?”

Byleth nods. “It’s not that I think she would have told me to do it. Actually… I think she would say the same thing you are—to follow my heart rather than any sort of calling. So… I don't feel obligated, exactly. I just wonder if there’s a reason all my choices have led to this one.”

He just watches her, listens to her, letting her walk herself through her train of thought.

“And… it means a lot that you think I’d be good at it,” she adds. “I was still unsure about my ability to lead, so… hearing that you and Rhea have that kind of faith in me…” She turns her hand over to hold his. “I think it’ll help me think more clearly about some things.”

Dimitri can’t fathom why she would have doubted herself as a leader. She’s never been given any sort of direct role, as far as he’s aware, but she’s never hesitated to take charge when needed, and it’s always turned out for the better. Even as the army’s tactician, she has more authority than perhaps she realizes. Even if Dimitri gives the orders, it’s never without her thought and approval behind them.

Then again, to be fair, he’s hardly one to judge when it comes to self-doubt.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He runs his thumb across her fingertips with an encouraging smile. “I know our lives have been… hectic lately, to say the least, but you are always welcome to discuss this with me if you need it.”

“Thanks. I don’t need to give them an answer immediately, so I have time to think.”

“If I may offer one bit of advice, I recommend you take the time to do so. I will support your decision either way, and I am certain you will make the best one… but you deserve to be absolutely certain of what you want.”

Byleth’s smile twitches as if she’s about to say something, but she only nods.

* * *

“If you show up at your own coronation looking exhausted, I’m pretty sure a few people will have some choice words for you.”

Dimitri grins apologetically. “As will Seteth, if I do the same to you. I promise I won’t keep you long.”

As they reach the top of the stairs, Byleth casts a glance around the old tower’s interior. There are a lot of memories in this place, some better than others. She steals a glance at Dimitri but his expression isn’t telling.

“Is there a reason you wanted to come here?” she wonders.

“With my approaching departure to Faerghus, I thought it… fitting, I suppose. I’m not sure when we’ll be here again. Together,” he adds, and there’s enough space between those words to hint at what he’s thinking.

Byleth gives him a sympathetic smile. Her thoughts have been playing along those same lines lately. “It won’t be too long,” she promises. “It sounds like I’ll mostly be setting the framework with reorganizing and appointing personnel for now, not to mention some restoration efforts in the former Empire territories. Once that’s done, I’ll be able to see to some of our concerns in Fhirdiad personally.”

There’s a shade of something wistful in Dimitri’s smile as he nods. “I’ll be counting down the days. In the meantime, I hope you won’t find me too bothersome if I write to you every day.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Will you have time for that?”

“I’ll make it, if I must.” He touches her cheek fondly.

Her good mood wavers. “Will you be alright? Alone, I mean?” He won’t really be alone, of course. He’ll have his friends, his knights, his trusted allies during the day. The nights will be another matter.

“Do not worry about me. You’ve given me the strength to overcome so much… It is time I moved from depending on you to learning from you.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion tender and his gaze so affectionate that it makes her heart ache. “But I will miss you terribly.”

Her eyes fall to his chest as she slips her arms around his middle. It will definitely be strange, being so far apart for so long. She already hates the idea, but she accepted her role knowing full well it would require some sacrifices.

“Me, too. But I guess it’ll be just like old times, in a way.”

Dimitri gives a gruff laugh. “It will be a little more difficult than it was then, I would think. But yes… it’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before.” He kisses her forehead lightly, lingering there a moment before kissing the bridge of her nose, and then finding her mouth. It’s a brief exchange, and he’s the first to pull back. “Well, Your Grace... things will be busy from now on. To think we once met by chance—a mercenary and a prince, and then fellow students… and now an archbishop and a king. How very far we have come.”

She hums and runs her hands along his arms. “We’re still the same.”

“That is true.” There’s a more serious look on his face as he seems to study her, and then he breaks again into a warm smile. “To me, you will always be the one who guided me so kindly. My ally through all. My beloved…” He hesitates, looking thoughtful again. “Yes… my beloved.”

Strangely, it’s the first time either of them has given a name to what they are. They’ve each expressed their affection multiple times, and he was the first person she ever called friend—and yet… even after Byleth realized what her budding feelings towards him were, she never stopped to think of what to call him in light of them. He’s always been _Dimitri_ to her; she didn’t need a different word. They never gave each other any sort of nickname, either, even in their more passionate moments.

Even so, the way the word _beloved_ rolls so naturally off his tongue sends a small shiver down her spine.

“Dimitri…”

He breaks from his reverie at her voice. This time his smile is awkward and he seems to fidget for a moment, before finally going still and straightening his expression. “To be honest, I did have an ulterior motive, of sorts, in bringing you here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There is something I wish to give you before the coronation.”

Curious, Byleth watches him take her left hand. Before she can wonder for too long, a glint of silver catches the moonlight—and she stares, stunned, at the band he places on her finger.

Her eyes go wide and her mouth opens, but her words catch in her throat.

“Please—I beg of you, say something,” Dimitri blurts. His voice actually cracks. “If you do not wish to accept it, please just tell me. If so, I will face the truth and walk away.” His grip begins to loosen. Byleth quickly cups her free hand beneath his to keep it there, shaking her head.

“That’s not it at all,” she says gently.

She’s glad she didn’t store it away in her trunk like she considered doing a few times. Having to run back to her room to fetch it first would be rather anticlimactic.

Instead, she reaches into the pouch on her hip to carefully withdraw her mother’s ring, and then holds it up to where he can see it. His face likely mirrors the shock of her own a moment ago.

She smiles sheepishly. “You beat me to it,” she admits with a light shrug. “I was going to wait until after the ceremony.”

The wait was killing her, too. For him to ask first is a bigger relief than she can put into words, even if she had little reason to think he would have refused. If his anxiety a moment ago was any indication, he likewise had those nonsensical doubts as to her answer.

Amusingly slow, realization dawns on Dimitri’s face. He breathes out a laugh that’s somehow happy, relieved, and self-conscious all at once. She doesn’t miss the way his fingers shake before he steadies them. “Yes, I see. Right. Let us exchange them, shall we?”

She helps him pull off his glove, having noticed recently that he lost some dexterity along with the feeling in that hand. He watches her likewise slip the ring onto his finger. There’s a moment of silence as they study their joined hands and their new adornments, the jewelry looking out of place among their scars and yet so right, somehow, at the same time.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this,” he says softly. His smile shrinks, his expression distant. “Truthfully… had things been different—had _I_ been different—I may well have proposed to you when we were still students.”

Byleth stares. “You were already that sure?”

“From the moment we first kissed, yes. Although my admiration began long before then.” He gives a small shake of his head. “But… even before everything happened… I was afraid of moving too fast, too soon. We came from such different backgrounds, I wasn’t sure how you would take being courted so quickly. And…” His mouth flattens, frowns. “I… did not know if it was right, asking such commitment from you when I was still so shackled to the past. I considered asking you more recently, as well—many times—but… I couldn’t bring myself to promise you a lifetime when there was a chance I wouldn’t survive the next battle.”

She laces their fingers tightly. “Back then… I never really thought about what being together really meant. At first I was just taking everything in stride, I think.” She hums, quiet and thoughtful. “It’s hard to say what my reaction would have been early on. As strange as it sounds, the person I was then… She feels so far away now.”

“Not as strange as you think.” Dimitri smiles again, the look a sympathetic one. It gives Byleth the resolve to continue speaking openly.

“Honestly? I started having doubts lately—about us. Not because of you,” she adds quickly with a firm look. “But because I’ve seen how dedicated you are to your ideals, and I know how passionate you are. I wasn’t sure if…” She shifts her weight a little. “...if a king’s wife should be any less prepared for that kind of dedication. I want to help people, and I want to help you get to where you want to be… but I can’t promise I’ll be as good at those kinds of things as you are. I’m already making a big leap of faith in taking on the Church, so...” She stares at him searchingly. “Are you really okay with that?”

Dimitri doesn’t hesitate. “I fell in love with you, my beloved, not what you can do for the Kingdom. Once again, I believe you to be selling yourself rather short—but that aside, even as a king, I don’t need someone who was raised in the same environment as myself. More than anything, I want someone I can trust to guide and correct me, who can listen and understand and accept me, and speak with her own voice. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve done nothing _but_ these things.”

He looks again to their hands, lingering on her ring. “I believe having you on the throne alongside me will only do Fodlan further good. If you are willing to face those challenges with me, I will support you entirely. And if you decide you would rather focus all of your efforts on the Church, I will support that, as well. Whatever our responsibilities to the Kingdom, there is no doubt in my mind that I wish to spend the rest of my life with you. Whatever may come.”

His gaze is as steady as his voice, without uncertainty or doubt, and Byleth knows that every single word is honest and earnest. It isn’t like her to feel shy, but under the weight of his stare it’s hard to keep the heat from rising in her cheeks.

“Then… I’m sure, too.” She gives him a nod, and his hands a decided squeeze. “I want to marry you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd—and make good on that old wish of ours.” Her smile quirks as he chuckles. The irony of their current location isn’t lost on him—or perhaps he planned it.

“And you, Byleth Eisner, do me the greatest honor in giving me your hand.” He kisses her knuckles, warm amusement in his tone. “No matter how many times I hold them in my own… it never fails to amaze me when I see how small and fragile they are. These hands that have saved me countless times…” His voice falls to nearly a whisper, as if in awe. “Thank you, my beloved.”

Out of words, Byleth simply steps closer and leans into him. He wraps an arm around her shoulders to hold her. Between their bodies, their hands remain clasped.

“Your kind, warm hands,” he breathes against her cheek. “May they cling to my own forevermore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl I was REALLY tempted to end it here, on the same line as the game, but... wedding... WEDDING.......... _I can't come this far and skip the wedding_
> 
> so ONE MORE TO GO


	15. Chapter 15

The hustle and bustle of the castle is much calmer when Dimitri finally makes it to the upper floor. Up here there are only the guards on patrol, here and there a maid hurrying to and fro, and he feels as though he can finally catch his breath.

He isn’t even a part of the planning committee and he still feels exhausted. He can’t complain—the stress on his end has been mercifully minimal thanks to everyone involved—but when he isn’t being congratulated or instructed with some last-minute pointers regarding the ceremony, he still has messengers and advisors to meet with in between, and a kingdom to keep running.

Even on his wedding day, the King of Fodlan hardly has a moment to himself.

But eventually he finds one, well into the (fortunately and appropriately sunny) afternoon. With hardly a conscious thought, he takes the opportunity to make his way upstairs in a direct line for the queen’s chambers—rather, the queen-to-be, at present.

He knocks lightly on the heavy oak door, which is enough to immediately hush the murmur of voices and high laughter on the other side. A moment later the door opens slightly to reveal Annette’s surprised face.

“Your Majesty!”

“Annette,” he acknowledges with a smile and a nod. “I assume Byleth is present?”

She makes no move to open the door any wider. “Well, yes, but she’s already in her dress and everything. We’re doing her makeup now.” When Dimitri only raises his eyebrows curiously, she makes a huffy sound that might be an attempt at a growl. “So you can’t see her yet! It’s bad luck, you know!”

Mercedes appears behind her, her expression gentler but her conviction no less firm. “She’s right, Dimitri. On the day of the wedding, you’re not allowed to see the bride before the ceremony.”

“Ah…” That does sound like an old superstition he might have heard once, now that he thinks about it. “I see.”

“But if it’s urgent…”

He shakes his head. “No, not at all. I just wanted to check in while I was passing by, but I’m sure she’s in good hands with you two.”

“Wait.” Byleth sounds close. Just that brief touch of her voice is enough to smooth away his wedding jitters for the moment. “I’d like a word with him. You two deserve a break, anyhow.”

After a little more convincing and a promise not to let him see her, the women take their leave, along with two maids who also emerge and give Dimitri quick curtsies before departing. If their pleased smiles and reassurances that they’ll return soon are anything to go by, they’re enjoying the chance to help with the preparations.

With the door shut again, Dimitri hesitates, feeling a little silly, but it doesn’t take long for his previous mood—the warmth, the anxiety, the lingering disbelief—to trickle back into the forefront of his attention. Staring at the floor, he asks, “Are you holding up alright? Things have been rather…”

“Chaotic?” Byleth offers, earning a quiet chuckle.

“You could say so.”

“It’s fine. It takes me back to your coronation, in a way. Except it wasn’t me that everyone was staring at back then.”

He gives another soft laugh. “Do you think so? I find it hard to believe I was the only one enraptured by your radiance that day.”

“Are you trying to calm my nerves, Dimitri?”

“Is it working?”

He hears her exhale and imagines the amused shake of her head. “I don’t need compliments for that. Just you being near is enough.”

Dimitri’s throat tightens, cutting off his search for words. That’s happened a lot lately, and at least a dozen times today alone—he still finds it hard to believe that this day is here, that he’s just hours away from being bound through marriage to the love of his life… not that the Church’s stamp of approval is all that important in his mind. Being married is certainly _proper_ , and he wants so badly to call her his wife and his queen, but at the end of the day those are all simply words. They’ll still love each other, still mean just as much to one another as they do now.

He places his left hand lightly against the door, eyeing the ring on his finger.

“Dimitri?”

“...Yes. I’m here.”

A short pause. “How are _you_ holding up?” she asks quietly.

“Just fine. I agree that it hasn’t felt this hectic since the coronation, but everyone’s been so kind and helpful… I can’t imagine how stressful it would be without them.”

Byleth hums warmly. “Same here.”

Dimitri hesitates, and then opens his mouth, but she speaks again.

“You know… I’m sure I’d be a lot more nervous if it wasn’t for you. I still feel wildly unprepared to help lead the country, to be honest, but I don’t have any more doubts. Even if I’m not totally confident in myself, you’ve helped me come this far without looking back.”

He smiles fondly. “It’s… quite difficult to imagine you nervous about anything.”

“Well, I _am_ ,” she chides, and laughs as he breaks into a grin. “But really, though. Thanks for checking up on me. It’s nice to hear your voice.”

“It’s my pleasure, beloved. But once you’re confident as queen, you must tell me when my meddling becomes bothersome.”

Byleth snorts softly. The doorknob turns and Dimitri steps back, surprised, but the door only opens wide enough to let her hand slip through, palm up. He takes it and she gives his fingers a squeeze.

“You’ve never been a bother,” she assures him. Despite no longer being muffled by the door, her voice is even quieter than before. It’s clear she isn’t talking only about the last couple months.

He breathes out, short and slow. Just as she trusts him to be honest about her potential, he trusts her to be honest about… _everything,_ really. So he can’t help marveling at her patience for what feels like the thousandth time.

“When you say it,” he nearly whispers, “I feel as though I can believe it.”

“I hope you do, one day.”

Absently, Dimitri nods, even though she can’t see it. 

“At any rate… I didn’t mean to bring the mood down. Forgive me.”

“You didn’t. It’d take a lot more than that to ruin my mood today.”

That brings his smile back to his face. “I’ve lasted this long without you, and yet it seems today is the longest one yet. The ceremony can’t come quickly enough.”

“The ceremony?” she teases. “Or after that?”

“I’ll be happy just to see you again, beloved.” He strokes her knuckles, a bit of playfulness trickling into his own tone as well. “But… I do not deny I’ve wanted you to myself for a while now.”

“Mm, you and me both.” Her hum stretches on long enough to send a chill down his spine. Before he can think of a response, she says, “Close your eyes.”

Dimitri does so and hears the door open wider, the rustle of long skirts as Byleth joins him in the hall. Without a word she takes his face in her warm hands, holding him for a moment before guiding him down to meet her in a soft kiss. He melts into it, into her, wrapping his arms around her as he kisses her more deeply, chasing this simple contact that he’s missed for so long.

The nip of Byleth’s teeth, the eagerness of her tongue tasting his lips say she’s missed him just as badly. His roaming hands find her bare back and caress her skin carefully. She moans, so high and soft that it’s more like a whine.

“Yes,” she breathes into him.

More tender touches tell him that her neck is bare on all sides—her hair must be up—and the cut of her dress in the front is low. The urge is there to cover every inch of her soft skin in hungry, appreciative kisses, but it won’t do to leave telling marks on display. He settles for grazing his fingertips over her collarbone, along the dip of her ample cleavage, and Byleth’s grip on him tightens.

“If it didn’t take three women to get me into this dress…” she murmurs wistfully.

Chuckling, Dimitri presses a smile against the corner of her frowning mouth.

“Soon, beloved.”

* * *

Two hours later, Byleth stares into the mirror at a face she barely recognizes.

Mercedes and Annette kept their applications tasteful by request, using the makeup to highlight and accent Byleth’s characteristics rather than cover them. It isn’t gaudy, but she’s never seen herself look so… _soft_ before, and that’s what makes her own face so unfamiliar to her eyes. For most of her life she didn’t think about her appearance—she dressed as she liked because those pieces caught her eye, but nothing more complicated than that—and she never stopped to wonder whether she was attractive or not. At least, not until Dimitri told her she was.

His low voice in her ear has made her _feel_ beautiful many times, but this is the first that she’s seen herself _look_ it.

Mercedes’ beaming reflection joins hers as the older woman places her hands on her shoulders. “Well? What do you think?”

“It looks amazing. I look... like I actually belong in this castle now,” Byleth half-jokes. Behind her, Annette giggles as she fluffs the gown’s skirt.

“The royal look really does suit you, Byleth! His Majesty will fall in love with you all over again!”

She watches her reflection smile. She _is_ curious to see his reaction, especially after their brief rendezvous earlier.

A glance at the clock says they still have two hours until the start of the ceremony proper. Dimitri was right—today _is_ lasting forever.

“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Byleth admits. “I’ve never been to a wedding before, so I didn’t think it would be this complicated. Even for royalty.”

“I think the people are happy for another reason to celebrate, after all that’s happened,” Mercedes muses. “And a new queen is a wonderful reason indeed.”

Byleth’s stomach flutters faintly, as it’s been prone to do recently. Adjusting to the position of archbishop hasn’t been easy, but despite her wavering confidence back at the start, there hasn’t been a day when she regretted or even doubted her choice.

Now… She doesn’t regret this, either, but apparently months of learning to lead the Church has done little to help steel her for this. She isn’t even Queen yet and she already feels overwhelmed.

Her fingers flex anxiously, missing Dimitri’s reassuring touch.

_Soon,_ she repeats. She can smile and stand up straight and recite some lines for a few more hours, no problem. After that, they’ll be together again and they can focus on the future from there. Together.

* * *

“Ah, Your Majesty!”

By now Dimitri has mastered keeping most of the annoyance off his face. He turns with an automatic smile to see Count Barlow hurrying towards him, a stout man some twice his age with an eager-to-please smile that threatens to split his round face in two.

“Your Majesty, I’m so glad to have caught you! I was hoping for the chance to see you in-person today. Please, allow me to congratulate you once again—” He gives a deep bow and his smile, if possible, looks even wider when he straightens up again. “May the Goddess bless your union in all your days to come.”

Dimitri doubts that’s all there is to his enthusiasm, but he nods his thanks regardless. “Thank you, that means much to both of us. I hope the journey north wasn’t too troubling?”

“Oh, not at all, Your Majesty, not at all! Why, I haven’t felt this safe while traveling since your father first took the throne. I commend your clever distribution of military resources, especially in such a short time!”

“That would be to Her Grace’s credit, actually.”

“Oh, you don’t say! Well, with all due respect, Your Majesty, I think I speak for many when I say I never expected to see a rising queen so versed in military affairs. You’ve quite the eye for potential, I see!”

A huff of a laugh escapes him, a bit less formal than Dimitri would normally be outside of his usual circle. “Not at all. It would be more accurate to say that she was the one who courted me.” He’s quite certain there are members of his council who would nearly faint if they heard him make such a declaration in public, but the thought only makes him prouder of the truth.

Judging by Barlow’s wide-eyed stare, he’s of the same mind. He recovers and quickly stammers, “I—I see.” He clears his throat and turns to what can only be his real reason for stopping Dimitri. “While I have your ear, Your Majesty, I was hoping we might take a moment to discuss the matter I wrote about before…”

“The redistribution of land, you mean,” Dimitri recalls, his good humor fading.

“Ah, you remembered! You honor me, Your Majesty. But yes, after speaking at length with some of the lords of the surrounding territories, I humbly think it best that you consider—”

“I’m sorry,” a new voice speaks up, “but His Majesty is very busy at the moment.”

Both men stare in surprise at Ingrid, who somehow managed to slide into the conversation without detection. She’s standing to attention with her arms behind her back, but her gaze is fixed on Barlow.

“Any messages or public concerns are currently being directed to Sylvain Gautier and myself, as previously announced.” Her smile is a friendly one, but Dimitri recognizes the steel behind it and the rigidity of her polite tone. “I apologize for the inconvenience, but I’m certain you understand.”

A dark look flickers over Barlow’s face as he regards her, head tilting back a fraction as though he’s debating looking quite literally down his nose at her. Either the sight of her Kingdom armor gives him pause, or he quickly remembers himself and his place, because a glance up at Dimitri betrays Barlow’s sudden uncertainty as to whether he’s in any position to defy her.

“Yes… well.” He clears his throat with a curt nod. “Forgive my enthusiasm, Your Majesty. The matter can, indeed, wait a day—”

“A week,” Ingrid corrects sweetly. “Their Majesties will be taking the week to themselves.”

“...Ah. I see.”

Once Barlow excuses himself and takes his leave—after one last promise to catch up with the king as soon as humanly possible—Dimitri waits until he’s out of earshot to mutter,

“A week?”

Ingrid tilts her head up at him, her expression of ironclad respect smoothing into a fond smile. “Matters such as those can wait that long, in my opinion. You both deserve it.” The smile slowly flattens into a line. “And as I recall, you _did_ agree that you would allow Sylvain and I to handle people like him for the day.”

“I did.”

Her expectant stare speaks for her: _So…?_

He shakes his head with a low sigh. “I can’t say that I’m comfortable with the idea of turning my subjects away just because I can.” Even if it is an important day, who is he to ignore the people? He did that for too long already.

In the corner of his eye, Ingrid’s gaze softens. “That’s exactly why we’re here, Your Majesty: so you don’t have to. Please, rely on us when you can. You’re stressed enough as it is.”

“What makes you think I’m stressed?”

Turning towards him, she reaches up and straightens his collar. “Just a hunch.” Satisfied with her work, she takes a step back and glances out over the crowd of staff bustling through the dining hall. “And… Sylvain mentioned you were a little nervous this morning.”

Dimitri winces. “I had a little trouble getting dressed, is all,” he admits. “It’s been awhile since I wore something this extravagant.” It’s the truth, but the real problem is being in the habit of dressing himself, despite his servants’ repetitive offers to assist. For all the careful dexterity Byleth has managed to teach him, buttons are still a weakness of his. “But how are things with you?”

“Everything’s going well,” she assures him. “You’ve received a few messages, but nothing urgent. I just spoke with Ashe and the catering is on schedule. No security concerns, according to Felix.”

He nods. “Have you seen Dedue lately?”

“Helping Ashe, last I saw.” Ingrid hesitates. “I… noticed that the staff seems more—well, at ease around him lately. I think it’s safe to assume it’s thanks to you.”

As glad as Dimitri is to hear it, he’s learned to be realistic about the issue. He can only hope they learn to adopt that attitude permanently, not just as a means of making his wedding day go more smoothly. Still, he gives her a grateful smile. “I’m glad. But you lead by example as well, Ingrid. I should be thanking you for being one more voice of reason among the knights.”

She looks away, her smile wavering but her voice strong. “That’s more to Dedue’s credit than mine. It’s to yours, as well.”

“Mine?”

Again she pauses, but when Dimitri urges her to continue, she goes on, “Honestly, I had difficulty understanding you for the longest time. I couldn’t see where your compassion and confidence in the people of Duscur came from, especially when everyone around you thought differently. But now I know it’s because you have the strongest resolve of anyone I know.” There’s something self-conscious in her expression as she looks at him again, but she’s smiling all the same. “I can only hope to be half as steadfast in my own beliefs as I continue to serve Your Majesties.”

Some of that self-consciousness trickles sideways. Dimitri chuckles as he also watches the crowd, feeling some of the nervous weight lift from his shoulders. “You’re more steadfast than you know. I’m sure Byleth would say the same.”

* * *

“It seems a little silly,” Byleth remarks as she brushes the curtain aside, peering out the carriage window. “All this effort to have the beginning of the ceremony in one place, just to go back to the castle where we started for the rest of it.”

“That’s the thing about traditions. People like to follow them without thinking too hard about why they’re still following them.” Across from her, Sylvain sits with his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. His usual public smile is in place and his tone is upbeat. “It’s easier that way.”

She lets the curtain fall back into place and returns her hands to her lap. She can’t help envying Sylvain’s easy posture; she has to keep reminding herself not to touch her face, lest she smudge her meticulously applied makeup, or even so much as slouch, to prevent disturbing her precariously styled hair. Even picking absently at her large skirt is out of the question, what with the risk of causing a run in the delicate sheer material of the top layer. Just a while longer, she reminds herself, and then she’ll be off of public display and able to relax.

“I guess this is a pretty harmless one, all things considered,” she figures with a careful shrug. “I imagine the public feels more involved when it’s out in the open.”

“People love weddings,” he replies, making the same gesture. “Good excuse to gather, gossip, drink, spend money, just about anything you want to do.”

“Have you been to many?”

“A few. They were just social obligations, though, no one I knew that well. And none were half as inclusive or as huge as this one.”

Byleth hums. “I’m still adjusting to the idea that everything’s so large-scale for royalty.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows rise a fraction. “Not like you pictured?”

“Not really.” Another shrug. “Dimitri’s coronation was the biggest event I’d seen. Now it seems pretty humble.”

Sylvain doesn’t comment on that, but allows his gaze to wander upward again. Byleth watches him for a long moment before asking, bluntly but calmly,

“Do you still think I’m only interested in him for his status?”

For a few beats Sylvain doesn’t respond. He doesn’t give any indication that he heard her at all, so she doubts her question came as a surprise. He’s never accused her of such—not directly—but he didn’t exactly hide his suspicion, either.

At last, he answers thoughtfully, “Huh. Is this why you requested me, out of all the knights?”

“Not to interrogate you, no. If you’d refused, that would’ve been enough of an answer.”

He smiles again as he looks at her. It’s a grim, analytical sort of look, but it doesn’t feel as fake as the previous one. “If you were anyone else, I’d think you were just rubbing it in my face at the last minute. But I’m guessing you want an honest answer.”

“It’s why I asked. You’re one of his oldest and closest friends. I can’t just ignore how you feel.”

Now he does look mildly surprised. Perching his cheek on his fist, his elbow on the arm rest, he answers in one of his rare, serious tones, “It doesn’t matter what I think. You make His Majesty happier than I’ve ever seen him, and it seems pretty unlikely you’d do anything to hurt him.” He turns his head to glance out the sliver of window on his side. “You never doubted him, and you always stuck by him. Even as one of his oldest and closest friends, that’s more than I can say.”

“We all stuck by him,” she points out, “even when we didn’t agree with him. Felix, too.”

“Felix wasn’t the one keeping an eye on him every night while he was in a bad place. And it sure as hell wasn’t me who pulled him out of it.” Sylvain looks at her again, his gaze openly searching. “If status was your endgame, there were much easier ways of going about it.”

He straightens up and shoots her a cheeky grin. “Nah, I think you’re just as much of a hopeless romantic as he is. Pretty cute, really. Of course,” he adds with a wink, “it’s not too late to change your mind. I can still turn this carriage around and drive us off into a pretty romantic sunset, if you like.”

Byleth shakes her head exasperatedly, smiling.

* * *

_“Dimitri.”_

The sharp tone snaps him out of his thoughts. His head swivels towards the source automatically, where he’s unsurprised to find Felix glowering up at him.

“I’m sorry, I was… lost in thought. Did you—”

“I _said_ quit fidgeting. You look like a child.”

Dimitri frowns. “Am I—?”

Oh.

He glances down at where his hand is wrapped around the ceremonial sword on his belt, the agitated motions of his fingers threatening to wear down the jeweled pommel at best, or snap the whole thing in two by the hilt at worst.

“Ah. Thank you, Felix, I didn’t realize.” He forces his hand to his side as his friend scowls.

“Why are you even nervous at this point?” he demands. “You know she’ll show.”

Dimitri nods distractedly, his gaze once again glued to the cobblestone street. It’s covered in flower petals tossed about by the crowd, but there’s no sign yet of the bridal carriage. 

“It isn’t that,” he admits. Felix is right: this is the easy part compared to asking for her hand in the first place. “I am just…” He struggles for words for a moment more before finally shaking his head with a nervous chuckle. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, honestly.”

Felix only scoffs, but behind Dimitri’s other shoulder, a gentler voice speaks up. “I think it’s natural to be nervous, Your Majesty. Anyone would be, during such a momentous occasion.”

He smiles back at Dedue gratefully, and then shoots Felix a playful look. “Indeed. I hope we have the opportunity to see how you handle it yourself one day.”

A glare and an even more spiteful scoff are his only response. The weight on his shoulders a little lighter, Dimitri glances around at their surroundings, trying to appreciate the venue for further distraction. The large garden is, he was told, where his father and birth mother were married. It’s a lovely place, more like a small park, the grass and flowers carefully tended and appearing more like a picturesque scene right out of spring, rather than the cool autumn day it actually is. Even the weather is mild, a bit warmer than it usually is this time of year, knocking the bitter edge off of the breeze but not enough to make him uncomfortable in his several layers of clothing. It’s another stroke of fortune Dimitri feels grateful for and it also helps him relax.

The sidewalks beyond the wrought-iron fence are fit to bursting with onlookers, a mixed crowd of commoners and nobility while a couple dozen select guests have been granted places inside. Not for the first time, Dimitri is both amazed and incredibly humbled by the effort that must have gone into setting everything up, and how cheerful and encouraging his friends and staff alike—well, Felix, not so much—have been all the while.

He’ll have to talk with Byleth for some ideas on how to thank them all properly.

He’s glancing over the familiar faces of the inside guests—his friends and former classmates, his allies, his guardians—when an excited murmur from the crowd makes his heart skip a beat.

The horses pulling the carriage move at a steady trot, but the short trek from the street corner to the garden gate seems to take minutes rather than seconds. The talk and cheers of the crowd go unheard, his chest feeling lighter than air as the carriage stops and a knight moves forward to open the door.

Sylvain appears first, garbed in blue and white and armed as all of Dimitri’s inner circle of knights are for today. He turns back with a flourish and a bow, holding out his hand, and a much smaller one emerges from the carriage for him to take.

Dimitri stares as Byleth steps out.

She’s always been lovely in his eyes, from the first time he witnessed her graceful form in battle to their last night together months ago when she was bare beneath his gaze, flushed all over and breathtakingly perfect. She twisted his idea of beauty, the very definition of it, to the point that no one else can compare.

The approaching bride and her confident smile abruptly remind him of that fact.

She’s dressed in white, of course, a flowing gown that trails generously behind her, but navy blue accents the small fur mantle around her shoulders and gleams in the gemstones among the ornate silver strands laced delicately over her bare throat. Dimitri barely notices the impressive make of the dress—a sheer, transparent layer over the skirt that’s studded with diamonds—because his gaze is drawn magnetically to her face.

Her hair has been styled high on her head, woven with small white flowers that catch the sun and appear to frame her face in a halo. It’s elegant, emphasizing the soft curves of her cheeks, and even from here he can see the touch of extra color to her lips, her eyes. If she feels out of her element, she doesn’t show it in the slightest as she takes Sylvain’s arm and starts down the pathway, her back straight and shoulders squared and expression pleasantly mild.

_Beautiful_ suddenly seems too weak a word.

She’s stunning. _Radiant._ Her presence alone is… powerful. The very air feels different with her near.

This must be what it would feel like to stand in the presence of the Goddess.

Byleth’s gaze trails away from the crowd and meets his. Dimitri’s breath catches.

He’s well aware that he’s staring as she makes her way forward, but he can’t bring himself to care. Only when an angry jab in his lower back jolts him back to his senses does he remember what comes next. He meets Felix’s annoyed glance with a grateful look, and then starts walking with what he hopes is his usual, casual confidence.

With Felix trailing on his right, Dedue on his left, Dimitri again holds Byleth’s gaze as they approach one another, finally meeting halfway along the path. There, Sylvain steps away to leave Byleth to herself. Her smile softens to one less public and more personal, and the two of them might as well be alone as far as Dimitri’s concerned; he sees nothing and no one else as they simply regard one another, trading affectionate smiles as if this is yet another private moment shard between them and not a public event on full display for the hundreds around them.

Finally, Dimitri steps closer and goes down on one knee. Byleth holds out her hand, as previously instructed, and he takes it. Their gloves are too thick for him to sense her familiar warmth, but her grip is solid and reassuring. He bows his head, pressing a fleeting kiss to her knuckles, and when he stands again she joins him at his side. They walk arm-in-arm to the tall dais that lets them stand above the surrounding throng, over which a respectful silence has quickly fallen.

It’s mostly rehearsed ceremony from there: the bishop recites several prayers and the duties of the king and queen—

_“—to cherish and serve one another, the Holy Kingdom, and the people—”_

—and after they each give their word and swear by the Goddess’ name, he turns to Byleth with another prayer, another declaration of her responsibilities and obligations—

_“—in accepting the hand of His Majesty King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, you hereby swear your undying fealty and your lifelong devotion to him and his people, henceforth **your** people, to love and protect all your days—”_

—and her acceptance is followed by her crowning, whereupon Dimitri does the honors of placing the slender circlet upon her head as she kneels. When she rises, a ripple of movement indicates the crowd kneeling in turn, acknowledging her ascension.

And while the king is normally the only one exempted from the gesture, Dimitri takes a knee, as well, beaming up at her with too many emotions to name.

_“To Your Majesty, King Dimitri, and to the loyal people of Faerghus, I present to you your Queen: Her Majesty Byleth Eisner Blaiddyd.”_

Applause, cheers, whistles, and music shatter the silence. Dimitri takes Byleth’s hands as he stands up and catches her grinning mouth with his, his racing heart fit to burst.

* * *

Half an hour later they climb into the carriage together, letting out simultaneous sighs when the door is closed behind them. They’re both still smiling—Dimitri isn’t sure when he’ll stop—but the moment of privacy is appreciated after being on display thus far.

Byleth, leaning snug against his side with her hand still clinging to his, must feel the same.

They don’t say anything at first, merely listening to the muffled noise of the street, the steady gait of the horses as they begin the trek back to the castle. It won’t be long before they face the public again, this time for a few hours, but Dimitri isn’t in any rush to fill the space with words. He only raises their hands to kiss her fingers, eyeing her appreciatively when she looks up at him.

“You look absolutely stunning, beloved. And you did wonderfully.”

She angles herself towards him with a warm chuckle. “I felt pretty out of place the whole time,” she admits. “But… whenever I looked at you, I knew I was where I belonged.” Her bright eyes roam his face as she cups his cheek. “I think… this might be what home feels like,” she says softly. “The monastery felt like that once, but after you left…” Her smile is crooked, a little wistful. “It wasn’t the same.”

Dimitri turns into the warmth of her palm, breathing in her faint natural scent beneath the mild perfume she’s wearing. “Nor here. I would have traded any one of those lonely nights in the castle to be camping in the rain with you again, if I could.” He grins as she laughs.

“We really have come a long way.”

“Indeed.” He lifts her chin with a careful finger, gazing leisurely into her eyes as though he’ll never get his fill of it. “And I want to go so much farther with you,” he murmurs. “For the rest of my days, Your Majesty.”

Byleth’s eyes lower—self-consciously, he thinks at first, until he feels her thumb graze over his lip. “Forevermore,” she agrees. Her smile grows as he leans in for a kiss.

When his lips soon part to deepen it, she pulls away with a slow shake of her head. “Mm, I want to. But I’ll make a mess of you.” She swipes a finger across his mouth to clear away the smudge of her lipstick; Dimitri does the same to where it’s already bled along the corner of her lips.

“I would pardon such an offense,” he replies, making her laugh again.

“Later, then. When we aren’t being watched by hundreds of people.”

“Fair enough.” He strokes his thumb along the curve of her jaw line, and then brushes his knuckles down her neck, over her collarbone. Even these light touches send a shock through him, starved as he’s been for her presence.

He kisses her forehead instead and his lips positively buzz at the contact. At Byleth’s squeeze of his fingers he repeats, kissing slowly down her nose, over her cheeks, everywhere on her lovely face except her painted mouth. When he nudges her jaw with his nose, she tilts her head to let him make his way down her throat. He does so lightly, to avoid the usual blossoming marks he would leave in his wake, but her breath quivers eagerly in his ear.

Her collarbone and the steep slant of her chest are tempting, but the intricate jewelry draped there is an unfortunate obstruction. He thumbs the curve of one breast where it disappears into the front of her dress and Byleth groans. It’s an impatient sound.

“You can’t get them out,” she mutters. “This ridiculous corset…” She fidgets in place, the frown on her face endearing and arousing at the same time, and Dimitri breathes a deep chuckle. He has to wonder if the inconvenient design of her ensemble wasn’t intentional on the behalf of modest tradition.

“Later, then,” he repeats playfully, but not without a hint of his own disappointment showing. He glances over the expanse of her dress, the way it hugs her waist and hips so snugly before flaring out at her knees, pooling gracefully around her feet.

He sets his hand on her thigh instead, lightly caressing the seam between her legs.

“Although, having waited so long to see you in a wedding gown…” He kisses her temple, glides down to brush his lips over the shell of her ear. “Now I’m almost reluctant to take it off you.”

He meant it as a joke—partly, anyway—but he hears her sharp breath, feels that subtle shiver in her skin, and he knows she took it as anything but.

A dozen scenarios cross his mind, the most tempting of which is to drop to his knees before her and push that skirt up to her hips, to bury his face between her strong thighs—

And he quickly smothers the thought before it can race to his hips. They only have a few minutes, after all, and it wouldn’t do for them to both show up flushed and overheated.

Instead, Dimitri withdraws just enough to place another light kiss on the back of her hand. The faint blush lingering in Byleth’s face is a sight he holds close for the rest of the day.

* * *

Dimitri doesn’t have to take the dress off of her, after all.

It’s probably just as well that Byleth’s handmaids steal her away for the task at the end of the night, given the ridiculous amount of buttons and laces that would surely give her new husband trouble. It’s a struggle even for her, she quickly finds, when her attempts to aid in loosening the gown are politely brushed aside to be done in a much quicker fashion by practiced hands. She’s promptly but carefully helped out of the dress, the offending corset, and even her undergarments in what’s surely a quarter of the time it would have taken on her own.

It’s probably for the better that she turned down Mercedes’ and Annette’s offers to assist with this part early on, as well—they’ve done so much as is, and the night has been a long one—because as differentiated as Byleth is when it comes to most matters, even she might have felt a twinge of embarrassment had they been the ones to bring out her choices of ensemble for the evening.

She wouldn’t have been bothered by her two friends seeing her in the delicate gowns of sheer fabric and lace, nor even the revealing strips of cloth meant to pass as underclothes, but knowing that _they_ would know the ultimate purpose of the outfit, and where it would end up, is enough to make her feel a bit self-conscious at the very thought.

She chooses the shortest gown, which will barely touch past her hips, and a bodice beneath that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. If she’s meant to be appealing, she may as well play to her strengths and what Dimitri likes best, she figures with a small smile.

The maids seem so happy to help that Byleth doesn’t have the heart to turn them away at this point, so she lets them continue on. Her hair is let down and brushed out, much faster than it took to style it this morning, and the last of her makeup is gently removed with a damp cloth. She thought the help would feel intrusive, but the careful touches on her face and in her hair feel nice after the long day. It’s still a strange thing to get used to; such assistance is unnecessary at the monastery, but her archbishop gowns are a much simpler affair.

“Your Majesties will find some wash supplies in your quarters, should you need them,” an older woman assures her with a bow, as the last of the flowers are plucked delicately from Byleth’s hair by another. “Should you need more, or anythin’ at all durin’ the night, please don’t wait a moment to summon us, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

“Would Your Majesty prefer I send a healer with the tea in the morning, or shall she come by after breakfast?”

Byleth gives her a quizzical look. “A healer?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The woman stares at her expectantly. In the mirror, the other maids also glance at Byleth.

“Is… is there a particular reason for that?” she wonders, digging through her memory for a hint of some tradition or social protocol she might have already forgotten.

“Oh—well—beggin’ your pardon for sayin’ so, Your Majesty, but given the... considerable strength that runs in His Majesty’s family, it isn’t unheard of for the queen to want some—assistance afterwards. Especially on the wedding night.” The old woman bows. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I shouldn’t have assumed you didn’t—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I… I understand.” It’s not exactly a funny matter—her heart goes out to all previous queens who had no preparation beforehand—but Byleth has trouble smothering a smile all the same. “Thank you, but it won’t be necessary.” The woman looks doubtful, or perhaps just concerned. Uncertain how much she can admit, Byleth adds in an attempt to placate her, “I’ll send for someone if the need arises.”

She’s also given a soft robe, thankfully, which feels delightful against the castle’s perpetual chill that’s been nipping at her skin. Once prepared, and after being introduced to her new look in the mirror—and thanking the handmaids with a smile, which seems to please them further—Byleth is promptly guided from the small dressing room to her and Dimitri’s adjacent bedroom.

She was certain Dimitri would have arrived first, but she finds herself alone with the crackling fireplace and the dim glow of candles. Holding her robe close, she stands before the fire to warm up and sink her bare feet into the soft fur rug while she waits.

He doesn’t keep her waiting long.

The door on the opposite wall must lead to another dressing room, since Dimitri emerges in considerably less than what he was wearing before. Their eyes meet and Byleth’s smile is a reflex more than a conscious effort, the warmth in her chest even more intense than the heat of the fire on her skin.

They meet halfway, hands joining as they exchange a long, gentle kiss before any words. Dimitri parts with her only to pull her into a gentle embrace, his face buried against her neck, in her hair.

“I’ve wanted to hold you like this for so long.”

She hums, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

When he pulls back, Byleth takes a good, long look at him. She’s uncertain whether he’ll ever lose that tired look around his eyes, but everything about him seems… healthier, fuller than it was when they last parted at Garreg Mach. Now, away from the crowds and the rush of a busy schedule, she has the chance to ask:

“How have you been?” She trusts him to recognize that it isn’t just a pleasantry.

“I’ve been well. Dedue and the others wouldn’t let me fall into disrepair even if I tried.” His smile quirks as he tucks her hair behind her ear in that way she loves. “I haven’t been wanting. My only complaint was missing you terribly.”

She leans into his hand as hers run lightly over his chest. “I don’t think you’d tell me even if you did have complaints,” she teases. “As if you weren’t running yourself ragged while I wasn’t around.”

“We’ve both had our work cut out for us,” he acknowledges, dodging the look she fixes him with. “But one could argue you’ve been at the bigger disadvantage, coming into the Church as suddenly as you did.”

Byleth leans into him, her arms wrapping around him. “One could. But I don’t think either of us wants to talk about work.”

“No,” he agrees as he touches his forehead to hers. “I don’t.”

For a long moment their shared gaze is enough, a blissfully private exchange after all the hustle and bustle of the busy day. Neither of them is taking this time for granted.

When she tilts her head just so, he answers with another kiss. As light as it is, there’s a hungry weight to it this time, a confession to all the stolen glimpses and outright stares he sent her way throughout the long evening. His touch is like a spark in her skin, igniting the same desire that’s been simmering inside her for what feels like forever now, and Byleth’s fingers curl into the front of his shirt as she meets him passion for passion.

The room goes from pleasantly warm to nearly stifling. She pulls back and shrugs out of the robe, letting it fall to the floor. At Dimitri’s expression, she goes still to let him take her in. His eye roams hungrily over her exposed skin—her throat, her shoulders, her breasts—as well as what little the transparent gown pretends to hide. Just that _look_ is enough to make her start aching.

When they tangle again, there’s no patience in it. His tongue pushes into her mouth as her hands glide under his shirt. Her lips sting under the pressure of his eager kiss but it’s stimulating, just as much as his large hands giving her ass a fond squeeze.

Byleth can’t strip him fast enough. His shirt is tossed aside and her gown follows. She reclines onto his—their—large bed with him in tow, his warm weight on top of her making her purr with relief. Her thigh presses between his legs and he’s already growing hard for her. Just for her.

Dimitri starts on her bodice, seeking out the row of strings binding it to her, but Byleth simply groans, “Tear it.” He obeys immediately, a light tug splitting it down the middle and freeing her breasts to the warm air and his warmer hands. She arches up into him as he touches her—he’s so _good_ at it by now—and when his mouth finds her nipple she grinds herself down against his thigh with a gasp, sensation tearing through her like fire.

Her fingers fumble with his eyepatch and work it off. She starts to reach for his short ponytail but at the last second decides against it, instead clutching him closer as his teeth graze her skin and his hot breath rolls down her chest. How is his touch so much _better_ than she remembers?

“Have you been waiting all day for this?” she pants. “Were you thinking about— _mmm_ —touching me when you looked at me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he hisses. “I’ve missed you—so much, beloved—” He kisses up her neck to find her mouth again. Byleth mewls against his lips in surprise as his hand moves between her legs, palming her a little roughly. Her hips push back in response. “Tell me how to please you,” he murmurs. “Please, Byleth—” His thumb rests against her clit while another finger presses further down, rubbing the damp cloth against her. She arches further, desperate to touch and be touched as much as possible. “I want to serve you,” he whispers flush against her ear. “My queen.” His thumb gives a firm stroke. She moans sharply, loudly. “Tell me how.”

It doesn’t go over her head that he’s somehow pleading and commanding at the same time. She’s not sure which turns her on more right now but her answer is the same either way.

“Make love to me, Dimitri.”

He goes still. When he pulls back to look her in the eye, Byleth cups his face and smiles warmly. “Make love to me,” she repeats softly against his lips, “and let me make love to you.”

Her kiss is just as light. He matches the easy pace. 

Their hands and mouths wander, eager but patient. No matter how many times she touches him, tracing and caressing and kissing every scar, every hard muscle, every inch of him, Byleth’s convinced it will never get old. Judging by the way he seems to worship her so fully—slowly, completely, as if it’s the first time he’s explored her, learned her—he feels the same. His moans are interlaced with compliments, his body betraying his desire with the presence pressed hard against her leg.

“You feel so good,” she whispers as he slips her underwear from her hips. “Everything you do to me feels so good, Dimitri…” A sly smile steals across her mouth at the quiet _snap_ of her panties tearing.

When Dimitri leans over her again, his muscled thigh braces between hers and begins rocking steadily against her. It’s so unexpected and _good_ that a soft cry escapes her before she can stop it. She presses back into her pillows, adjusting her hips for the best angle as she rubs against him in turn.

With his hands braced on either side of her, he watches her squirm and pant underneath him. Byleth’s vision unfocuses as she holds that intense look, her breath already coming hard and fast as she chases that tension in her abdomen.

Part of her wants to drag this part out as long as they can, to build things slowly, but tonight every touch and kiss and sound makes it harder. Before long, just the simple brush of his mouth on her shoulder sends another throb of pleasure down between her thighs. She craves him so much it hurts.

At last her patience snaps. Byleth forces herself to stop grinding on his thigh and tears the front of his pants open. She takes his thick shaft in her fingers, pressing it between her legs to drag him against her, making him slick with her desire. He grunts, hips bucking, and she moans his name at the friction.

“Now,” she pleads shakily. “I want you. All of you.”

She still wants his hands, his mouth, and she’s eager to give as much in return, but they have all night for that. They can take their time; for now, she wants _him_ , at last, completely and utterly.

He’s so gentle as he obeys, lifting her easily to settle them both at the head of the bed. As Byleth relaxes against the pillows, she finds the sight of him kneeling before her a breathtaking one. She parts her knees at his touch, shivering when his fingers run lightly down the inside of her legs.

“Byleth,” he says, warmly but seriously. His voice is even deeper than usual, thick with lust. “Do you think it best if you… lead, the first time?”

It takes her a moment to string some coherent thoughts together, and then she catches his meaning. The offer is a tempting one. She will, at some point tonight, most assuredly pin him down and ride him until they’re both spent, coaxing every one of those lovely sounds of desire out of him—but for this time, the _first_ time…

She meets his gaze with a loving smile, her hand outstretched to let him nuzzle her fingers.

“I will, if you’re uncomfortable. But I trust you, Dimitri. Completely.”

He holds the look for a few beats. Then he smiles against her palm and nods. “As you wish, my beloved.” He threads his fingers with hers. “I’ll need you to tell me if I—if it’s too much,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

He brings her hand to his lips to kiss the back of it—such a simple gesture, but one that continues to make her chest tighten with more emotion than she can put into words.

Her knees hug his sides as he moves closer. Even in Dimitri’s hand, his cock looks large and Byleth bites the inside of her cheek. The possibility of pain doesn’t worry her, but she doesn’t want him misinterpreting any discomfort as his fault. She’s glad that their previous moments of intimacy may have helped her prepare somewhat.

Just the touch of his head to her slick skin makes her shudder. Her fingers twist in the blankets as she feels him catch on where she’s wettest, and when her skin gives way to allow him entry she sucks in a breath and holds it, and then reminds herself to breathe. He moves slow, watching her face intently and freezing the instant she winces.

“Byleth?”

She hums and grasps his hand tighter. “It’s okay. You’re pretty big. Don’t stop.”

He strokes the heel of her hand with his thumb for a moment, and then nods.

By the time their hips connect, they’re both panting. Dimitri leans over her, their joined hands pinned to the pillow as he takes in her flushed face as if with new appreciation.

It’s all more than Byleth could describe if she tried. He feels _good_ amid the prickles of pain, so solid and full, but more than that, he feels so _right_. It reminds her of the first time they kissed—and before that, even, the first time he looked at her and she felt her stomach flutter in that strange, foreign way: the realization that another person could make her feel like she never had before. The sensation of suddenly knowing what it means to be complete.

Her eyes flutter closed as she sighs. Even that small shift of her weight drags her against his erection and her skin positively buzzes in anticipation.

“I’m alright,” she breathes, knowing he’ll ask. “You’re so…” She guides his mouth down to hers and tastes sweat in their kiss. “I’m so full with you inside me like this,” she praises quietly. “You feel so good…” He shivers and her body hums in response, stimulated by even the slightest of his movements. “Can you move yet?”

He nuzzles her cheek as he adjusts his weight. “Would it be best to go slow?” The growl in his voice is likely accidental this time; his tone is light, clearly seeking approval.

“To start with, yes. I’ll tell you when.”

He gives her fingers one last kiss before releasing her hand. She grips his shoulders instead.

His first couple tries are a little too rough, but Byleth keeps the pain off her face and corrects him gently. It’s already so different from his hands and mouth, so new despite the similar concept. After a few more experimental thrusts, he touches her just so, just right, and the flare of pleasure in her veins drowns out the lingering discomfort.

Guided by her reactions, it doesn’t take Dimitri long to find a good pace. His moans and gasps for breath sync with hers, and once she figures out how to move with him, it really does feel like they’re joined as one.

“Byleth—you feel— _wonderful—_ ”

His strength slips and his next thrust makes her shout, but she quickly follows it with a stuttered _Yes—like that—Dimitri—!_ and this must be what it’s about, this desperate, mutual chase to please and be pleased without holding back. She angles her hips a little further up and _oh_ —

“O-Only you— _Dimitri_ —you make me feel—”

His mouth finds hers again, their moans mixing with their tongues, their hands roaming everywhere and caressing, groping, scratching, bruising—

The longer he goes on, the rougher his movements become. Byleth welcomes it now, hoping each thrust will be the one that shoves her over that edge, but every movement just makes her body coil tighter and tighter. It’s as wonderful as it is frustrating; it’s satisfying and teasing all at once.

“Do you—still need me to touch you?”

She barely recognizes Dimitri’s low, breathless voice, but she understands the question. “Yes,” she pants, “please.” His hand seeks out her clit again, cautiously clumsy as he tries to time his touches with his thrusts, but it’s more than enough to make her cry out as the tension between her hips spreads to the rest of her in jarring leaps and bounds. Byleth lets her voice go free, moaning and gasping, commending and pleading, chanting his name as he works her so attentively, intent on helping her all the way through.

“Are you close?” he murmurs against her ear.

“Yes—harder—”

He strokes her more firmly and she sees stars. Hugging him to her, she rolls her hips against him all the more hungrily and doesn’t notice that his have slowed to let him focus on his hand.

The pressure and the wait are maddening. She whimpers impatiently into his shoulder. “Right there—right there—Dimitri—”

His teeth graze her ear. “I want to feel you, Byleth,” he groans. “Let me feel you.” He touches her a little more firmly still. She clutches him to her, digging her fingertips into his firm back as her walls flutter hopefully around him and tease them both.

Dimitri rests his forehead against hers, his good eye dazed but searching, his expression as soft and loving as she’s ever seen it.

It makes his tone of voice all the more surprising.

_“Now,”_ he snarls. It’s unexpectedly aggressive—a deep, raw sound that she feels in his chest, sharp and guttural and commanding.

She’s not sure if it’s the tone itself or the fact that he’s demanding her orgasm that undoes her, but he guessed right all the same. It works.

She didn’t think it could get more intense than some of their previous nights, but this time each pulse of pleasure makes her shudder and locks her stunned voice in her throat. Unlike before, there’s no space to leave her wanting as her muscles clench around him eagerly, his cock unbelievably thicker and harder than his fingers ever were. Wet gasps are her only sound.

“ _Goddess—_ Byleth—you’re so tight,” Dimitri grunts. His thrusts are still slow, but his arms are shaking. He presses his face into her neck. “You’re so beautiful—I love you—so much—”

Suddenly he groans, plunging into her as deep as he can go. Byleth mirrors the sound, startled, as he comes hot and fast inside her, even as she continues to tremble with the fading aftershocks of her own pleasure.

It’s so much more intimate in the heat of the moment than she thought it would be. As many times as she’s worked him through an orgasm before now, this is _different_. She rubs his back as he trembles, his moans lovely against her skin, and takes her turn to whisper gentle praise as he comes back down from his high along with her. She eases his damp hair free of its ponytail and runs her fingers through it, as much to soothe him as herself.

With the momentum gone and the heat fading, the dull ache between her legs is more noticeable. Even when soft, Dimitri’s big enough to overstimulate her just by remaining where he is.

He pushes himself up to look at her. “Are you alright?”

“Mm.” She cups his face with a smile. “It was wonderful,” she assures him softly. “I’m… a bit sore, but that should be normal.” There will certainly be bruises and aches tomorrow, but it’s a negligible drawback.

He takes that as his cue to slip out of her and does so carefully. Her eyes follow and find more of a mess on their skins than she expected. When he appears to hesitate, she chuckles. “Come here.”

As soon as he’s beside her, she nuzzles against his chest and tangles their legs. Even hot and tired and covered in sweat and everything else, she wants him close, and so does he if his embrace is anything to go by.

“I love you, too,” she murmurs. His fingers comb through her damp hair.

They’re both silent for a short while, trading mild touches as though they still can’t get enough of each other. Byleth finds that as her skin starts to cool, her mind starts to wander, and it isn’t long before she’s craving him again.

Before she can decide how to say so, Dimitri remarks, 

“To be honest... I keep thinking I may wake at any moment. That this has all been nothing but a sweet dream.”

Byleth leans back to look him in the face. He’s smiling, warm and affectionate, but there’s a shadow in his gaze. Maybe it’s the physical fatigue, or the mental exhaustion after the long day they’ve had, but she recognizes something distracted there, something haunted and uncertain. She wonders how many times he’s awoken during the night, alone and wrapped in his nightmares and the voices, tricked into confusing reality with his fears.

She brushes his hair back.

“I’m real, Dimitri,” she promises softly. “All of this is real. We’re going to wake up tomorrow, and the day after that, and it will always be real.” Gently, she tilts his head forward to kiss between his eyes, and lingers there. “I’ll remind you anytime you need to hear it. And even if I’m not with you right then…” She feels for his left hand, fingering his engagement ring. “I know you’ll remember. You’re so strong, my love. Stronger than you know.”

Dimitri pulls her flush against him, breathing sharply against her chest as he curls around her. She continues petting him, reassuring him, a tender smile in her voice for as long as he needs it.

When his arms finally loosen, he presses a kiss to her hair, her forehead, and then catches her eye with a loving expression that isn’t at all forced, nor distracted. “I see why the Goddess chose you, beloved. I doubt there has ever been a human to walk this earth who was more deserving of her grace, or fitting as her voice.” He kisses his way slowly down to her mouth, whispering, “You are so much _more_ than queen or archbishop, Byleth. You are the Goddess herself to me—loving... forgiving… and more merciful than I could ever comprehend. And I am more grateful… and in awe of you… than I can ever hope to express.”

Byleth takes his face in her hands, kissing him with the same tender adoration as she grins.

“ ‘My beloved’ is just fine, Dimitri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the first multichapter of mine I've actually finished that was more than 3 chapters LOL
> 
> but hmm, wow, this was quite the ride! I hope this super fluffy conclusion was a good wrap-up to all the drama of the first 14 chapters. these two deserve it ;_; and if you stuck around this long, thank you! I was determined to finish this beast no matter what, but every kudos and comment along the way was an appreciated push to help me get here :')
> 
> as for what I'll work on next HMM ONLY TIME WILL TELL


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